


Beyond Our Waking Eyes

by abbythebollix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Professor!Cas, bartender!Dean, mechanic!Dean, student!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbythebollix/pseuds/abbythebollix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is troubled, Sam Winchester is growing up and Castiel Milton is too fucking hot for his own good.</p><p>A/N: This story is incomplete and is unlikely to be finished anytime soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troubled

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my first – by any stretch of the word - work of fan- or original fiction, but it's the first time I've published anything Supernatural-related. Beta-read by the ever-lovely mybelovedchesire, to whom I owe many thanks, cupcakes and kittens. I hadn't intended for this fic to become a series, but then again I hadn't really intended for it to be published, either. Title credits goes to Anathema. Further questions can be directed to my tumblr or formspring under same username. This fic is also on lj.

 

Dean Winchester is troubled. Now, he’s always considered himself a family man, of sorts – he’s never had much of one besides his little brother Sam, but what family he does have – he takes care of them. He defines himself by this standard of his, to always keep them safe and happy and their wishes and needs above his.

But damn it, if Sam doesn’t hurry the fuck up, shit is going down.

The coffee machine has been even more adamant than usual on keeping Dean from actually having a cup of coffee this particular morning, which  _really_ doesn’t help his mood. What also doesn’t help his mood is the fact that warm water has been turned off in the entire neighborhood, and no one has bothered to send him the fucking memo, so when he steps into the shower at seven AM after a particularly rough night – nightmares, bloody nightmares, smoke and fire and bright flames all over – and the water is freezing,  _literally_ (fucking winter), something inside him just wants to give up.

And now Sam, dear Sammy, his darling little brother, has decided to oversleep, even though Dean had told him he couldn’t be late for work today, not today of all days, not when they're running late, and Dean is going to get fired, and Sam—

Sam isn’t even dressed yet and it’s seven minutes to eight.

“Dude, not that I don’t appreciate your sudden interest in getting me fired and you flunking math, but you’re seriously testing the limits of my patience here.”

“I’m sorry!” Sam stumbles over his backpack on his way over to his dresser to find a clean shirt that hasn’t spent the last three days on his bedroom floor. Dean leans against the doorway and briefly considers helping him get ready, but decides against it. He is going to be late now, anyway, and he _really_ isn’t in a helpful mood.

“Sammy, what the hell? It’s not like you to sleep in on a school day.”

“I know, but—” he stops talking just long enough to stick his head through a t-shirt that looks no better than any of the ten he’s just discarded and undoubtedly smells no better, either. “I stayed up because I was behind on an essay, and suddenly it was three in the morning.”

“So what, you lost track of time? That’s not like you, dude.” Dean steps out of the way as Sam – finally dressed, complete with socks and jeans and flannel shirt, Dean’s undoubtedly, over his t-shirt – picks up his backpack from the floor and walks into the hallway to put on his boots. “Forgetting you had an essay due?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—” He’s blushing at this point, and Dean knows exactly what this means. It’s way too early in the morning to have _that_ conversation, though, but even if his brother is closing in on eighteen, Dean still feels like he’s his responsibility. He marks this down as a conversation they need to have in his mental inventory of _Things I Need To Do_ , a list no one knows he keeps even though everyone knows these are the things he’ll never get around to actually doing.

“I made you a peanut butter jelly sandwich,” Dean says and points to the small, tinfoil-wrapped package lying on the table under the mirror. “You know, while I waited for you to get your ass outta bed.”

“Dean, I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

He grabs their jackets from a hanger by the door and throws Sam’s at him. “Yeah, yeah, I know, just hurry up and thank me.”

The younger Winchester scrambles to zip up his jacket while pulling on his backpack and remembering the sandwich lying for him on the table, all the while mumbling his thanks and humiliation. Dean huffs at him, his little brother who’s not so little anymore, grown too much in too few months to actually get used to his size, and opens the door once he’s got his leather jacket around his shoulders.

“You’re a good kid, Sam.”

He just smiles at that and Dean shakes his head and closes the door after them. They walk through the seven inch deep snow on the way out to the Impala and Dean looks up and down the road, hating the fact that it hasn’t been cleared from the streets yet. The silver Toyota Prius belonging to their neighbor Mr. Milton is parked next to the Impala, and Dean wonders briefly about the fact that it is actually there; it’s Thursday, a weekday, and the physics professor usually drives to the University before seven on all weekdays. Also, it hasn’t snowed since Tuesday, but there are no tire tracks on the snow leading to the small Asian car.

He begins to worry. It’s what he does. But he can’t afford to be any later than he already is, and so he and Sam shuffle into the freezing car and hope that they won’t be caught speeding.

• • •

Bobby’s fuming once Dean gets to the garage; luckily Sam hadn’t been too late, and he’d only had homeroom for the first period, so at least he’s safe. Dean, however, is not.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

He’s shouting, Dean can hear even through the closed windows of the Impala as he parks next to some fixed cars that are ready to be picked up by their owners. He can also tell Bobby’s been waiting for him by the fact that he’s standing there in front of the open garage with a jacket on, but probably freezing his ass off waiting for Dean nonetheless.

“Bobby, I’m sorry, but Sam overslept while I was getting ready, and I had to take him to school. Besides, it’s only eight thirty, right?”

“You were supposed to be here at eight,” Bobby bitches as Dean pass by him and enters the garage. “I get that you have a lotta responsibilities, kid, but today of all days—”

“Labor inspection, yeah, I know, I know,” Dean apologizes and fills a cup with coffee. “Won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t,” Bobby grumbles and goes into his office. “Idjit.”

The day passes by without any more problems, Dean working on a '89 Ford Pickup that’s come in the day prior, Bobby walking restlessly around in the garage, making sure everything is in order. When lunch rolls around, one of the guys drives down for burgers and Bobby pulls Dean aside.

“So, kid, everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine, just a busy morning, is all,” Dean answers and dries his hands on his jeans. 

“You look like crap.” 

He wants to tell Bobby about his morning, how everything seems to jumble together in a big pile of fuck-up these days and how even just going out to buy groceries can seem like an insurmountable task sometimes, but a car drives into the lot and demands their attention, and Dean shuffles his thoughts into the back of his mind and goes out into the yard.“Hello, how can I help you?”

The men flash their ID’s and the red-haired one speaks up. “We’re with the National Mechanic Labor Inspection. Is Bobby Singer here?”

And so the rest of the day continues in a more stressful manner; Bobby can’t quite leave the two men alone to do their job, and Dean’s trying to focus his attention and concentration on the car he’s working on, forgetting about responsibilities and economy and nightmares in favor of a few hours of manual labor.

Two o’clock comes and goes without the men leaving, and when the clock strikes three and it’s time for Dean to finish up and pick Sam up from school, Bobby’s still spying on the two men from his office window.

“Bobby, I’m gonna go now, OK?”

Bobby jumps in his seat and Dean has to fight back a snicker. “Sam?”

“Yeah, he’s waiting for me at the school now, so…” He feels kinda bad about leaving early, mostly because the guys from the labor inspection are still out in the yard, but also because he came in late and the day hasn’t been as productive as usual. “I can’t really leave him out there, plus I’m —”

“’s a’right. See ya tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs and smiles a bit. “I’m almost done with the Ford pickup, so you can call the owner and tell them it’ll be done by four tomorrow, maybe.”

“Sounds good. You workin’ at the bar tonight?”

Dean pulls on his jacket and pats his pockets for his keys. “Yeah, from eight to two.”

“Don’t run yourself down, kid.” Bobby sounds worried, the tone in his voice a reminiscent of the years when Bobby had been Uncle Bobby, and for the second time that day, Dean wants to spill his guts to him, but doesn’t. He’s running late and he owes it to Sam not to let him wait out in the cold for him.

“Yeah, I won’t. See ya, Bobby,” he says and leaves the older man to his spying. In the car he puts on the heater and radio and drives twenty minutes into town. Sam’s waiting with some blonde girl out front and Dean thinks about making an ass out of himself, to Sam’s big disappointment and humiliation, but he’s tired and just wants to go home and take a nap before heading out to the bar.

Before he can make up his mind, though, Sam hugs the girl goodbye and crawls into the passenger seat of the Impala.

“So who’s your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my—” He’s red now, Dean notices, the same shade of red he’d been this morning, and Dean sniggers and can’t for the life of him understand why his brother would be embarrassed to have a girlfriend (especially one who looked like _that_ ). “Jessica’s just a friend.”

“Whatever, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

• • •

They go shopping on their way home and Sam convinces Dean to buy pasta and make the tomato sauce from scratch, which makes Dean happy and annoyed – annoyed because Sam’s using the dog eyes he knows Dean can’t resist and because he’d really looked forward to that nap, but nonetheless happy because it means Sam likes his cooking.

They park the Impala next to the silver Prius again, and Dean notes it hasn’t moved since that morning. He looks at the house next to theirs and feels a stab somewhere under his ribcage when he sees the darkened windows.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he snaps out of it and opens the trunk of the Impala and pulls out the groceries. Sam carries them to the door while Dean locks the car and takes one last look at Castiel Milton’s residence before going inside. 

In the kitchen Sam helps Dean put away the groceries and Dean’s relieved that the time isn’t even five yet, because now he might have time to do any of the thousand chores he’s postponed the last week.

“Dean, I can help you —” Sam says and tries to take the vacuum cleaner from his older brother.

“What about that essay from last night? Don’t you have any homework to do?” Dean asks, voice gruff, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s so tired he can taste it on the tip of his tongue but he knows that if he stops moving just for a little while, things are going to fall apart and there’ll be no way he can keep everything together if they do. There have been too many sleepless nights and too many bad dreams and fuck this, he’s not ready for it to be Christmas next week. 

“I finished it,” Sam says and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, you need to sleep.” 

“Dude, I ain’t got time for it,” he answers and brushes his shoulder against Sam’s as he picks up the vacuum cleaner and storms into the living room. “Now do your homework!”

Sam knows better than to argue with Dean when he’s like this, and Dean knows he knows this, so after a while Dean can hear a door close upstairs and he vacuums the bottom floor of the house and goes out into the kitchen to start the food. The window in the kitchen faces directly into Milton’s back garden, and if it wasn’t because Castiel never spends any time in it, Dean would’ve wondered why he didn’t put up a fence or bush to give him some privacy.

The windows are still dark, which is weird since darkness has fallen outside, and Dean thinks briefly about calling him or going over to check on him when he cuts his finger on the knife he’d been dicing the tomato with.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans and turns on the cold water. He sticks his thumb under the water and sighs as the sink is painted red with his blood. He checks the cutting board and luckily there’s no blood; they’ll be able to use the tomatoes. He cleans the kitchen knife even though it looks clean and calls out for Sammy to bring him the emergency kit.

“Dean, what happened?” He’s panting because he ran down the steps and Dean can’t stop feeling sorry for Sam because he’s got the same habit as Dean, worrying too much about, well, _shit_ , everything. He guesses that’s just how it is, not having much family and knowing you need to take care of what you’ve got, but sometimes, Dean wishes it would be easier to shut things out and just succumb to indifference. 

“I cut myself,” he explains, like it wasn’t fucking obvious already, and opens the kit Sam’s put on the counter next to him. They’ve run out of gauze, which is a pretty sad reminder of the life they lead, and he wraps his thumb in cotton and secures it with band-aids. “Could you maybe dice the rest of them?”

“Of course,” Sam says and picks up the knife. “What distracted you?”

Dean doesn’t really know what to answer and so he doesn’t, just picks up an onion and puts it next to the remaining tomatoes for Sam to dice. They continue to make dinner like this, together, which has been a long time since they’d last done that – Dean’s been too busy working and worrying to spend quality time with Sam, and Sam can’t really complain. Dean won’t let him.

• • •

Dean arrives at the bar on time, which is a big surprise to himself, mostly – not that he makes a habit of being late, but it’s rare that he can get there on time on Thursdays. Sam usually has lacrosse practice until seven pm, which means he has to pick him up, drive him home, make him dinner and then drive to the roadhouse. Season’s out, though, because of the snow that’s everywhere, and Ellen smiles at him when he comes in from the cold, shoulders huffed, fresh specks of snow on his hair.

“Honey, you look more dead than alive,” she says and pours two shots of whiskey for two men sitting at the bar. “You all right?”

“Just tired,” Dean says, which isn’t an outright lie; the only piece of it being false is the _just_ part. He feels better when he tells himself this, because there’s a difference between not wanting to talk about something and downright lying about it, and he doesn’t want to go into the specifics of the former at this moment. It’s not the right place, nor the right time, and he just needs to get through the next six hours without any further complications. 

She grabs his wrist after he’s taken off his leather jacket. “What happened to your hand?”

“Cut myself making dinner,” he explains and examines his hand; the blood’s gone through the band-aids. “We didn’t have any gauze, so I had to make do.” 

“Jo’s in the backroom, go find her,” Ellen orders, and Dean’s too tired to argue. He finds her sitting by a desk hunched over some book, homework probably, and silently greets her, not wanting to startle her.

“Hey, Dean,” her voice is warm and she seems almost relieved to see him, possibly because it means postponing her homework for a few minutes. “What’s up?”

“Ellen told me to find you,” he says and sits down on a chair next to her. “Cut my thumb and need to get it cleaned up.”

She huffs, smiling, and goes over to a cabinet to find an emergency kit not unlike the one back at the house, except this one is actually full. She opens it and finds antiseptic and gauze, rearranges the desk lamp to light up his hand sprawled on the desk. He winces when she pulls off the cotton and band-aids, a grimace she mimics. “Must’ve been something to distract you. That cut’s deep.”

“My mind was just elsewhere,” he explains. “Haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”

“Them nightmares still bothering you?” Jo asks, and damn Sam for telling her. How Sam notices in the first place, Dean has no idea, but he shrugs it off. “You better start taking more care of yourself, Dean.”

He can’t help but agree.

• • •

The coffee maker works for once and Dean decides the day can’t possibly be so bad after he’s got his first cup in him. Sam’s on time, too, and even if the water in the shower was cold it didn’t seem to bug him so much, even if he’d only gotten a couple of hours sleep. Sam had cleaned the kitchen after dinner, though, which had been a huge relief to Dean when he’d gotten back from the bar at quarter to three, but tired as he was, he’d been unable to fall asleep before it was four, and now it’s seven and he’s cooking eggs for breakfast.

“So, Sam, what do you wanna do tonight?” Dean asks, voice muffled with sleep as he lifts two fried eggs from the pan onto Sam’s plate. 

“There’s a Star Wars marathon on Spike…” Sam looks expectantly at Dean who puts the pan in the sink. 

“New or old trilogy?” Dean sits down across from his brother and gulps down his second cup of coffee that morning. 

Sam huffs around a mouthful of eggs and replies “Old,” before he swallows.

“Dude, if you stop talking with your mouth full, I’m in.” 

He smiles widely then, and the force of it clutches Dean’s heart tight and, fuck, if he didn’t have Sammy, he doesn’t know if it’d be worth it all.

“I’m making pizza,” Dean announces and butters a piece of toast. “You saved the left-over tomato sauce from last night, right?”

Sam nods and stuffs his face with more eggs. Dean sips his coffee and glances at the clock; they’re on good time today, for once, and he decides to be nice to Bobby today in compensation for yesterday, which – in some weird way – reminds him to check his cut and redo the dressing. Jo had given him the rest of their gauze, saying he needed it more than they did, and he’d been thankful and spent the rest of his shift wondering why he got to be blessed with people who cared about him when more deserving people didn’t have the luxury of friends.

And, fuck, it’s still dark over at the Milton house, Dean notes as he cleans the dishes after breakfast. He’s never known Castiel that well even though they've known each other for many years – they greet each other on the streets, talk whenever they’re both out in their yards working (though, for Castiel, that’s a rare occasion), but they’re not friends by any means of the word (or maybe Castiel is the only friend outside work Dean really has) – and Dean’s worried, and he cares, which is just fucking peachy.

“Dean? You ready?”

Sam’s waiting in the door to the kitchen and Dean shrugs and dries the last plate. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m ready.”

• • •

Sam’s chatty on the way home from school, talking excitedly about his Spanish teacher, who praised him for his essay on – whatever, Dean’s not really paying attention, which makes him feel like a really crappy brother, and to compensate he lets Sam pick the music, and he has to tolerate some British pop rock band for the last fifteen minutes of the ride. It’s the longest fucking fifteen minutes Dean’s ever had to endure, and he’s grateful when they turn around the corner up onto their street.

He parks next to the silver Prius and glances up at the Milton residence. The lights are on in the kitchen, but the door is wide open, and the rest of the house is laid dark, matching the sky above. Dean locks the Impala once he and Sam gets out of it, and throws Sam his keys.

“I’m going to go check on Professor Milton,” he calls and trudges through the seven inch deep snow that Castiel hasn’t cleared from the sidewalk.

“Why?” Sam asks, standing frozen by the Impala, backpack on one hand, keys in the other. 

“Door’s open, but no lights on,” Dean answers, opening the fence gate and trudging up to the front door. He hears their front door opening and closing and wonders for a brief moment if Sam will be all right, then scolds himself for thinking his seventeen-year old brother can’t take care of himself while he’s gone for ten minutes checking on the neighbor. 

“Dr. Milton?” Dean calls as he knocks on the open front door and sticks his head inside to look around. “Castiel?”

There’s no reply, and after a long moment Dean steps inside, wondering briefly if Castiel will mind that Dean is still wearing his boots, but then thinks that, fuck, if the guy’s lying dead on the bathroom floor, it won’t really matter.

Castiel, however, is not; he’s lying on the floor all right, covered in blankets, but it’s in the living room between the couch and the table, and there’s a heavy smell of smoke and burnt vegetables in the house. Dean looks into the adjoining kitchen and sees a big pot on the gas stove, smoke rising from under the lid that doesn’t really match the pot in size.

He kneels by Castiel and, out of reflex after the years he worked as an EMT, feels for a pulse and breath. He seems to be all right, Dean concludes, and goes into the kitchen to turn off the stove before they’ll have an accident. There’s not much left of the soup in the pot, and the chicken lying on the bottom is burnt and the vegetables dry. He tries to open the window but it won’t give, and he walks back into the living room, flicks on the light so he can see better, and Castiel jerks awake. Dean sits down next to him and helps him sit up and rest his back against the armrest of the leather sofa, hands lingering with each gentle press.

“Easy there, Cas,” the nickname rolling off his tongue easily, like he’s been calling him that for years. He doesn’t think about it too much, though, and notes how Castiel’s hair usually unruly hair is sticking out at odd angles and his stubble is more than three days old, which is unusual, even for him. 

“Dean,” he says, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “What are you—”

“I was worried,” Dean replies and clenches his fist in order not to start fussing over the older man. “Your lights were off, you haven’t been to work in days, your –” putting it like that, he sounds like a stalker, and he quickly veers the conversation back into the right track. “I got back from work and your door was open, figured something was wrong because no one leaves their door open in December.”

“I've got tonsillitis and was attempting to make soup, but the plan backfired. The kitchen window was stuck, so I opened the door to air out the house. I seem to have fallen asleep, though. What time is it?” 

“Past four, I think.” He sighs and runs a hand back and forth through his hair, his hand heavy on his face, and fuck, he’s so tired it’s hard to think straight. “Why were you on the floor?”

“I don’t remember,” Castiel answers, but he doesn’t seem to care too much about it, though, like it’s normal for him to pass out on the floor while he’s making soup. Dean notices how Castiel’s voice dips an octave deeper – he hadn’t thought it possible, honestly – and has acquired a rougher tone with the infection. 

“Well, I just checked on the soup, and no way you’ll be able to rescue it.”

“Shame,” Castiel says and raises himself up to sit on the armrest. Dean stands up, his knees protesting after crouching for so long, and he looks down at the mess of a man sitting in front of him, blanket slipping down and revealing the blue wrinkled pajamas he’s wearing, the top three buttons unbuttoned. Dean rubs his eyes with his hand and begs his mind to get back out of his gutter and back on track, even if Castiel's pale skin is oddly distracting, at best. 

“Do you like pizza?” Dean asks, crossing his arms as he sits on the coffee table in front of Castiel. 

The older man looks up through squinted eyes and nods. “I grew up in New York.”

“Okay. Get up, you’re coming with me. I know it’s not chicken soup, but if you’re sick, you should eat something. We’ll watch Star Wars,” Dean says with a nod, as if it’s final, and stands up. They've known each other for a while, but they're not as close as they once were – a few years ago the offer wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary, but Dean has learned a lot about himself since then, and even if it's not completely unknown territory, it's unusual enough for Dean to feel insecure. 

“New or old trilogy?”

Dean huffs, “Old,” and he turns around to walk into the kitchen. “Put on some clothes and I’ll clean this up.”

“Dean,” Castiel says and reaches out for him. His hand lingers on Dean’s arm and he turns to stare into those bright blue eyes that are just too blue and too bright and he feels breathless for a moment or two. “I am – I want to thank you. I wasn’t – I didn’t think I was – People around here –”

“Just say it, Cas,” Dean says, because he’s running out of patience and he feels too self-conscious standing there holding eye contact (wide blue eyes) while Castiel refuses to let go of his arm, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

“I am overwhelmed that you care enough about me to go over and check on me when my lights are out on a winter night. It’s – unexpected, and I am grateful.”

He’s earnest, and dammit, Dean feels himself blushing. He runs a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s the decent thing to do, Cas. I’m just being a good neighbor.”

Castiel is still staring at him, head tilted, and Dean just turns around and walks awkwardly into the kitchen, feeling the blue eyes staring at his back the whole time. He lifts the pot from the stove and uses a wooden spoon lying beside it to scrape out the vegetables and meat into the trash. He hears movement from the next room and figures Castiel must’ve gone to his room to change as he asked him to.

Dean can’t really figure out if he doesn’t need this at all, or if all of this isn’t just exactly what he needs. As always, though, he manages to block out the thoughts with some manual labor for the next minutes, scrubbing the pot and eventually giving up, just filling it with soapy water and thinking it’ll do good to soak.

He turns to inspect the rest of the kitchen, and there Castiel is, crowded up in his personal space, dressed in a crisp white dress shirt and black pants. There’s a lot of things wrong with this, but Dean decides to address the easiest one.

“Dude, what’s with the clothes? I said pizza and movie night, not dinner and a ballet.”

“I do not own other types of clothing, Dean,” Castiel says, frowning, looking down at himself. “If you want me to change, I –”

“No, Cas, that’s not it,” Dean says and steps around him, putting more distance between them. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt, that’s it. There’s no need to wear nice clothes when you’re with us.” 

“Us?” There’s that frown again, and Dean can’t help but smile, because dammit, Castiel is cute, and if he didn’t know better, Dean would think Castiel was disappointed.

“Sam, my brother. He’s cool.” Castiel nods at that, the movement precise and Dean reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I promised him I’d be back after five minutes, so he’s probably worried. You got everything you need before we go?”

“Yes, although it wouldn’t be quite hard to go back after it,” Castiel says, and Dean gets the funny feeling this is as close Castiel ever gets to making an actual joke, which is pretty fucking sad. 

“Right,” Dean nods, and notices his hand still hasn’t left Castiel’s shoulder, so he quickly draws it back and crosses his arms over his chest. “We don’t have tea though, so if you wanna bring some –”

“Sure. I’ll be a second,” Castiel says, and he turns on his heels. While he’s alone in the living room, Dean takes in his surroundings – there are books fucking _everywhere_ , not just on the bookshelves that covers, like, every wall, but also in stacks on the floor. How he hadn’t noticed this when he’d first entered, Dean has no idea, but it’s crazy and, oddly enough, not very surprising. What is surprising, however, is that there's no system or pattern in his books – he can spot Freud and Vonnegut stashed together with Greek recipe books and what he thinks is an arabic Quran. 

“Dean?” Castiel’s hand is on his shoulder, and it’s warm and comforting, and Dean realizes how tired he is. He tries not to lean into it and sigh, but he’s pretty sure Castiel notices, because there’s just a bit of a smile at the corners of his lips and eyes. 

“You’re all set?” 

“Yes.” Dean glances at the small basket Castiel’s carrying, a small crumpled brown bag with a red bow around, a jar of honey and half a lemon. Instinctively, he opens his mouth to make a smart-ass comment about it, but shuts it again, because Castiel is sick, and Dean is worried and tired, and Sam is waiting for them. 

 

Sam’s not waiting for them at all. He’s actually having so much fun, dancing around to some music Dean doesn’t even want to know if he recognizes, because that would be all shades of embarrassing, that the older Winchester is unsure whether they should’ve just stayed at Castiel’s house.

“Uh, Sam?”

Sam’s face is completely pale at first, then flushes a deep red when he stumbles over his feet over to the ghetto blaster to turn off the music. “Sorry, I just –”

“This is Cas,” Dean motions to Castiel who stands awkwardly in his trench coat with the basket still clutched in his hands. “He’s staying for dinner.” 

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, but makes no move to shake his hand. “I hope I’m not disturbing–”

“No, no, not at all,” Sam says and smiles wide, looking from his older brother to their guest.

It gets to the point where Dean gets embarrassed, and he puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder and smiles.“Lemme take your coat, Cas.”

“I'll make tea,” Sam says, eagerly taking the basket from Castiel's hands and smiling at them once more before going into the kitchen. 

Dean helps Castiel get out of the overcoat and walks to the hall to put it on a hanger by the door. Castiel has joined Sam in the kitchen by then and they're quietly conversing on the different ways of brewing tea, or whatever.

He begins making the dough as Sam and Castiel are waiting for the water to boil, and then for the tea to brew; Sam's good at making small-talk, something Dean suspects isn't Castiel's forte, and it's all very mundane and liberating, oddly enough, because right now he doesn't have to think about bills, or cleaning out the attic, or wondering about what to get Sam for Christmas, or if he even will be able to afford presents this year, because there's this thing in the air and that's enough, for now at least.

• • •

Dean stays in the kitchen while Sam and Castiel drink their tea in the living room, the soft murmur of their voices carried out to him. It eases him, somehow, that they get along, that he doesn't have to step in and take responsibility and be a good host, that he can just hide out in the kitchen making the pizza, getting his thoughts in order.

Castiel huffs quietly with laughter, followed by a cough and a slurp of tea. Curiosity overtakes him, and after covering the dough with a towel Dean walks out of the kitchen and leans on the doorframe leading into the living room, silently watching the two talk.

He doesn't pay much attention to exactly what they're saying, hopes they're not expecting him to contribute to this conversation, because his throat feels tight and he's sort of light-headed and overcome with, fuck,  _love_ ? This is one of those times that happens too rarely to him but are still strong enough to keep him going the rest of the time where everything seems pointless, because, fuck it, sometimes it hits him so fucking hard in the gut – harder than whiskey and classic rock – sometimes he just can't get over how much he loves Sam. It's a punch in the solar plexus, completely paralyzing him, blinding him for a second or two, and it knocks him breathless. 

But it's different, this time. Unlimited. It scares him a bit, but it's all right, because there are people in his life who will catch him if the ice breaks.

• • •

It's completely black outside now. There's more snow drifting down from above, and slightly illuminated by the lampposts standing on each side of the street everything is painted in a very peaceful, yellow glow.

Dean sighs as he leans against the kitchen counter, looking out of the window, and suddenly the silence hits him. His gaze shifts from the scenery outside when he hears footsteps approaching, and he looks to his right to find Castiel leaning on the counter next to him.

“Where's Sam?” 

“He said he had some homework he needed to do,” Castiel replies, and Dean doesn't question it, because homework on a Friday night? It sounds a bit too much like Sammy. 

“Dinner's almost ready, though,” Dean notes and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. “Help me set the table, yeah?” 

Castiel nods and takes out three plates from the cupboard Dean opens for him. Dean follows him into the living room, holding three forks and three knives in his hands, and lays them on the table on either side of the plates Castiel has already put down.

The kitchen timer goes off and Dean walks back into the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven, but he burns himself in his left palm. Cursing, he slams the baking sheet on the top of the stove and kicks the oven door shut.

Castiel is in the kitchen the and turns on the tab, as if he doesn't trouble himself with polite questions as to what happened, because it's pretty fucking clear what happened by the way Dean is holding his hand and still cursing.

“Give me your hand,” he says and reaches out for Dean, who does just as Castiel asks, because he's tired and doesn't see the point in objecting. His hand circles Dean's wrists and his eyes squeeze shut as he eyes the bandage around Dean's thumb. “What happened?”

“I cut myself yesterday,” Dean replies with a sigh and winces slightly when Castiel pulls the dressings from his finger. “What are you–”

“It'll never heal unless you let it get some air,” he says and puts Dean's hand under the cold spray of water. It hurts at first, but it numbs the burn quickly, and for the life of him, Dean can't figure out why Castiel doesn't let go of his wrist. They stand there for a while, hips and shoulders almost joined together but not quite; Dean can feel the low hum of warmth from Castiel's body. It's new, and it's different, but it's good.

“Uh, what happened?”

Dean lifts his head to look at his younger brother standing in the doorway. “Burnt my hand on the oven.” He coughs and closes the tab with his hand that Cas has left go of. “Dinner's ready, Sasquatch.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sam complains, bitch face number thirteen (the _“you're-embarrassing-me-in-front-of-people-stop-it-Dean”_ bitch face) showing its first daily appearance on his face, and Dean laughs and puts an oven-mitt on his good hand, picks up the pizza and walks past Sam and Castiel into the dining room. 

“Cas, d'you want a beer?”

Sam's sitting down in his usual spot and Dean bumps into Castiel when he turns around to walk back into the kitchen to get drinks. His body is still warm against his. Castiel puts his hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him, and Dean look up and just look at him for a full breath before he turns and enters the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” he replies shortly and sits down next to Sam. “If I drink when I'm ill I get sleepy.”

“'Course you do,” Dean mutters to himself, smiling, and pulls three bottles from the fridge. Sam's already eating when Dean puts down the soda in front of him, one alike in front of Cas, and pops open his beer while he sits down across from them. “Jesus, Sammy, couldn't wait?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, blushing, but continues to eat. 

“Cas, help yourself,” Dean says and eyes Sam meaningfully, because this time it's Dean who's embarrassed. 

“Hey, by the way, Cas is short for Cassiel, right? The angel?” Sam asks after having swallowed his first slice of pizza in three bites. 

“Castiel, actually,” he replies and takes a sip of his cola. “My parents were expecting a girl and wanted to name her Cassiel. Castiel is a different spelling of the name, a letter forgotten in translation or something.”

“But Cassiel was originally a male angel, right?” 

“All the angels were males, originally,” Cas nods with a shrug. “Nevertheless, both my sister and my mother have angelic names. My mother, Ana, short for Anael, and my sister Lucy, short for–”

“You're kidding me,” Sam laughs, and Dean blinks as his brow furrows. “Seriously, dude, your sister's name is Lucifer?”

Castiel's face remains indifferent, which is kind of amusing, but even more awkward. “She's actually very kind. Lucifer was an angel, too, in biblical lore.”

“How do you know this stuff?” Dean asks before biting down on his second piece of pizza.

Castiel chews and pats his lips with a napkin, staining them red with tomato sauce from his mouth that had been quite distracting. “Well, my mother's an angelologist, someone who theologically studies angelic lore. It's a family thing.”

“So you're all named after angels?”

“Not all of us. There's me, Lucy, and then my brother Gabriel. Our father is called George, my mother Anael, her brother Azrael, and their father Michael. Azrael, my uncle, married someone who, like him, does not care for religion, so they didn't name their kids after angels.” 

“But you're a physics professor, right?” Dean asks, brows furrowing once again. “I thought religious –” 

“Freaks?” Castiel huffs with laughter when he sees a dark blush across the bridge of Dean's nose and onto his cheeks. “We don't believe in God. Not in the traditional way, anyway. My professional life doesn't interfere with my personal life, or vice versa.”

Dean can't think of anything besides  _fuck, this guy talks like a book or something_ , and so he just nods, takes a swig of his beer and goes for another slice of pizza. Dinner continues with light conversation (apparently Castiel has vast knowledge of not just quantum physics and theology, but also science fiction and dystopian literature, which is right up the Winchesters' alley) and Sam helps him clean the dishes while Castiel rests on the couch. 

“So, I'm guessing the 'friendly neighbor' act was just a way to go see him, right?” Sam asks in a small voice, careful not to talk loud enough for Castiel to hear. Dean stops in the middle of reaching for a wet glass. “Come on, Dean, you probably think the guy's super hot or something.” 

“Sam...” It's a warning, just a tone louder than a whisper but with the same softness as such; Dean's too tired to really argue with his brother, especially when he's right. 

“He's just your type, though, isn't he?” He asks, and Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and seeing nothing but deep blue behind his lids. He doesn't answer (mostly because he's embarrassed that Sam can see through him that clearly) and they continue cleaning in silence. 

“I like him,” Sam says out of the blue while Dean is drying off the last plate with a towel. “Why haven't you invited him over before?”

“I don't know,” Dean says honestly and puts the plate away in the cupboard. “Never an opportunity or reason before, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs and dries his wet hands on the towel. “There is now.” 

Sam doesn't elaborate or explain, but, when Dean thinks about it, he doesn't really need to, and they walk back into the living room where Cas has turned on the television and Luke is cleaning the droids at the moisture farm.

“I hope you didn't mind I'd already turned it on,” he explains and sits up straight, pulling his feet down from the couch. 

“No, it's great Cas,” Sam says and sits down on his right. “Awww, we missed the beginning.”

“Dude, you've seen it like a gazillion times, it's not like you don't know what's happened,” Dean says and sits down on the other side of Castiel. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you. I'm just very tired.” When he smiles, it's a small but it reaches his eyes and it's genuine enough to make Dean feel self-conscious. “I'd like to apologize in advance if I fall asleep.” 

“Just don't drool on my shirt and we're cool.” Dean smiles back and Castiel looks at him until he feels his ears going red. He feels intimidated again (blue eyes; wide) – and it's been a long time since someone last made him feel like that. He can feel his exhaustion disappear with the oncoming adrenaline of sitting this close to Castiel and he searches his brain for an excuse, any excuse, to get up. “Uh, d'you want some more tea?” 

“Please,” Castiel says and gives him his empty hug he's been holding in both hands in his lap. Dean returns five minutes later with a steaming cup of some sort of herbal tea that he hopes he never has to drink in his life. 

“I put lemon and honey in it. What tea is this, anyway?” Dean asks as he hands Castiel the mug, their fingers grazing each other as he accepts it. “It's not even in a real tea bag.”

“It's chinese jasmine tea. It's very soothing for me. My dad used to drink it every morning, and when me or my siblings were ill he would pour us cups.” Castiel says this in a quiet voice in-between sips and Dean's chest ache because even if the information is somewhat random, it feels extremely private and Dean's never had that sort of intimacy with either of his parents. No one ever made him tea with honey or chicken soup when he was a kid, and after Sam had been born he was the one heating up soup for Sam when he was ill. 

His thoughts are cut short when the Tusken Raiders begin yelling on screen and Sam gasps, which makes Dean laugh instead. “Seriously, Sammy, every time?”

It's bitch face number four glaring back at him now and Dean just shakes his head and lies it back against the headrest of the couch. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he didn't get much sleep last night, if it's the pleasant scent of jasmine tea or the warmth of Castiel's body pressing against his side that makes him fall asleep, but he doesn't have time to think about it before he falls asleep and then suddenly wakes up at the first attack on the Death Star an hour later. Castiel's head is resting on his shoulder, his mug half full in his right hand, mouth slightly open but so far no drool stain on his shirt, and Sam? Sam is texting, stupid happy smile on his face.

“Your girlfriend?” Dean grunts, drifting in the weird phase between sleep and consciousness. “It's okay if you wanna go out, dude. We're having a sleepover over here and I doubt it'll be much fun watching the movies with us. Just be home before midnight.” 

“I wasn't gonna–” Sam says, looking up from his phone with a blush spreading across his cheeks, but he stops in the middle of the sentence. “Thanks, Dean.” 

“Yeah, don't mention it,” Dean says and picks up Castiel's mug before he's going to have an accident. Sam gets up and takes it with him into the kitchen while Dean puts the television on mute and he dozes off again just after he hears the door slam a couple of minutes later. When he wakes up again, Castiel is lying across the couch, his feet on the armrest in the other end and his head on Dean's chest. His hand is draped over Dean's waist, clutching his hipbone, lips slightly parted, hair sticking up in all directions, and Dean closes his eyes takes a few deep, calming breaths to steady himself, because getting hard while your neighbor is unconscious? Not cool. 

He remembers why he and Castiel stopped talking then, and admits to himself – if only to himself – that it was probably the best idea to cease all communication with him when he spent most of the time fighting the urge to kiss him, or touch him, or do a lot of tacky-chick-flick-momenty things that, if carried out, he'd never be able to live with himself again. And the funny thing about Castiel that Dean can't stop thinking about, as he looks down at the man splayed across his body and couch, is that the crinkles, wrinkles and furrows have only made him more attractive with age.

On the television Yoda is teaching Luke how to be a Jedi or something equally tedious (the scenes on Dagobah have never been his favorite part of Episode V) and he just settles down further into the couch, closes his eyes and drifts off again after a few minutes.

When he wakes up for the third time, the television is turned off and Castiel is looking at him from behind half-closed lids. He doesn't really ask or say anything about it, because he's still trying to wake up and then Castiel leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth. Before it's really registering into his mind that he is actually kissing Castiel he's already turned his head and kissing him back on instinct, soft presses of lips and tongue against each other as Castiel slides further up against his side. They pull apart slowly after that and Dean doesn't really know if it'll ruin things if he asks  _why_ or even says anything at this point, but it doesn't seem like he has to make that decision. 

“Sometimes it's the most obvious things that surprise you the most,” Castiel notes without blinking and leans in to kiss Dean again. 

 

 


	2. Irked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter, but things needed to be said (written?) before we could move along. Beta-read by miss Chesh once again. Feedback appreciated :-)

Dean Winchester is... irked, for lack of a better word. Because he'd fallen asleep with Castiel's hand on his thigh and his lips on his jaw and woken up with a wet spot on his shoulder that was possibly (hopefully) drool, a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch and a note – a fucking  _note_ – on the table thanking him for last night.

Sam had joked about it until he'd seen the scowl on Dean's face and decided against it, but the fact that his brother was in a good mood helps Dean somewhat, because then at least that means Sam's night went well. 

Right now, however, Dean is having a hard time appreciating his brother's happiness because he's... irked. Because last night Castiel was here and now he's not and Dean has little to no experience with awkward morning-afters when there has been no sex involved, and the whole note situation? Dean is just not equipped for this. 

“Just go talk to him or something,” Sam offers as they eat leftovers for lunch without Dean having breached or even strayed close to the subject of Castiel Milton and yesterday evening. “What was he supposed to do, stay the night? He probably just feels terrible about your shirt or bad manners or something.”

“It's not a good idea,” Dean says and dries his mouth with his napkin as he picks up his plate and stands up. “Are you done?”

Sam nods and gives Dean his plate. “Listen, Dean, I don't know what happened between you two last night, but I'm sure if you just talk to him-–” 

“Dude, no.” 

Sam doesn't push the subject any further and the rest of the day passes without them talking until Dean leaves at four o'clock for his evening shift at the Roadhouse.

“I'm sorry if I said something–”

Dean gives him a glare and pats his pockets to make sure he's got everything he needs. “Sam, it's fine. Just shut up. I'll be back around eleven unless something's wrong. You'll be here then, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, sure. Why wouldn't I be?” 

Dean lifts an eyebrow and leers at him. ”Figured you'd wanna spend the night with the girlfriend.” He waits for an objection but Sam stays silent – blushing, though – and Dean laughs, “Oh man, I'm so happy we weren't going to pretend she didn't give you a two-inch hickey on the left side of your throat.”

Sam's eyes go huge and he smacks his hand against the side of his throat, blush spreading over the bridge of his nose and down his neck into his t-shirt. Dean laughs again and shakes his head, picks up his keys and walk out the door, happy that, despite everything, he can still find comfort in teasing his darling little Sammy.

At the Roadhouse Dean busies himself with any kind of work that doesn't involve talking to either Ellen or Jo. While he's doing inventory he catches himself just before he falls asleep on his feet  _three_ times, and when after a few hours when he's done he checks the clock and decides to get something to eat because he's tired and unable to focus and irked, he's just fucking  _irked_ . 

He drags his body to the small staff kitchen and makes a sandwich from some of the leftovers lying in the fridge and sits on the counter, eating slowly, deliberately, too weary to actually think about anything but  _bite, chew, swallow, repeat_ . 

“Jesus, Dean, you look wrecked.”

“Thanks, Jo,” he replies without looking up, then realising he's sitting with his head bowed and eyes closed, and shakes his head and eyes open. “You really know how to make a gal feel special.” He tries to smirk, but it's too strained to count as one, and he sighs and throws the rest of his sandwich into the trashcan, having lost his appetite. 

“And here I thought you just needed to get laid to cure that insomnia,” she retorts and opens the fridge, searching for something to eat. “Since when do you have hot neighbors?”

“Sam,” Dean says, but it's not a question – the two of them are such big gossips it would've been foolish for Dean to expect his brother hadn't told her. “Not that it's any of your business, but I didn't sleep with Cas.”

“Oh, God, it was Castiel?” Jo's hair whips around her face as she turns to look at him. The music from the bar – Bon Jovi's _You Give Love A Bad Name_ , he recognizes with an internal wince – fills the silent air between them as the surprised expression on Jo's face turns slowly into pity. “I'm so sorry, I heard about the note–” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. He's surprised to see his hands are wet when he opens his eyes afterwards and Jo puts her hand on his shoulder, looking at him intently. 

“I'm here, Dean, if you need me. You don't have to carry the world all the time, you know. Sam's not a kid anymore, he can take care of himself once in a while.” It's definitely not the first and it just as certainly won't be the last time Jo tells him this, Dean knows, and he just nods and presses his palm to the back of his neck, rubbing the sore muscles there. There's too much water under the bridge and too much weight in the boat to float on top of it all, and Dean thinks about how much things have changed and how much better it would have been if nothing had. 

“So how's college going?” Dean asks and Jo looks at him with that knowing look, understanding his need to change the subject but also letting him know he's not going to get out of it that easy. Sometimes the absurdity of how well she knows him strikes him and how he hasn't done anything to earn the concern and confidence (in him; in everything) she puts into their friendship. 

“Aced my midterms,” she grins and high-fives him. “Actually, I've decided to change from biochemistry to biophysics, which shouldn't be too much trouble since I haven't had any elective courses yet.” She continues to tell him about a lot of stuff he doesn't really hear because he's just too tired to care, and it makes him feel like a shitty friend, and he spends the next ten minutes watching Jo eat and smile and talk, and – drowning in selfloath and pity for himself – he just can't bring himself to laugh with her when she tells him about the physics teacher who'll be teaching the quantum biology course next semester, some weird hybrid between biophysics and quantum mechanics that Dean's not entirely sure he understands. She's been telling him about the rumours circulating campus about the professor for five minutes before he pays enough attention to notice that Dr. Milton, professor in quantum physics, is probably the same Professor Milton that lives right next to him. 

“Jo”, he says when he gets it, and fuck, he really should be paying more attention when she speaks, “What's Dr. Milton's first name?”

“No one knows,” Jo laughs and Dean cringes, “no one has the guts to ask him, because he always looks at them with squinted eyes and head tilted when they ask him about anything that's not in the curriculum.” 

Dean doesn't have any trouble picturing Castiel's face, not at all, and he sighs, “Cas.”

“What?” 

“Jo, that's him. Castiel teaches quantum physics at the University, I just didn't know –” 

“Fuck,” Jo says with a snicker that turns into a full-blown laugh. “ _That_ 's Cas? No wonder you have a crush on him. Dude's fucking hot.” 

“I don't have a crush on him,” Dean snaps, standing up from the chair and filling a glass with water from the tab. He's not in a mood to be ridiculed, because yeah, he might have a small crush on Castiel (might have had one for years), but it's always just been that, a small crush born out of curiosity and intrigue, never because he had romantic hopes and illusions of being saved (or maybe that's exactly what it's always been). 

“Whatever, dude. You comin'?” She stands up and puts her plate in the sink. He nods and follows her into the bar and his body goes on automatic, filling whiskey in customer's glasses and small-talking and singing along to Aerosmith when _Dude (Looks Like A Lady)_ comes on and fixing the tab on the beer keg when it breaks. 

Eleven o'clock rolls around and there aren't a lot of costumers so he heads home, listening to a Bob Dylan tape he didn't know he had in the car and trying to compose a list of things he needs to do tomorrow. He thinks about Christmas and decides to invite Bobby, Ellen and Jo like always, see if Ash is coming to town, and maybe even Chuck and Pam, if they haven't got any plans.

When he parks outside the house Castiel is walking out of his house and towards him, house lit up like a fire behind him, and that's, well. Dean doesn't really know what to think of that. He locks the Impala and walks over to meet Castiel in front of his garden gate.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel greets him, not exactly smiling, and Dean feels flustered and inexperienced and like he's an adolescent again.

“Hey Cas,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a cold hand, but immediately stops when he realises he's doing it again, and feels even more ridiculous then. Stupid nervous habits are stupid, he decides, and looks up to find Castiel not exactly smiling at him, but not... _not_ smiling, either. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to thank you for last night,” he begins, and a smile broadens on Dean's face; it's the best thing he's heard all day – not that there's been a lot of news to compete with, but still, it's pretty fucking awesome. He drops his eyes back down again to hide a blush he's not sure is there or not.“I dropped by earlier but Sam said you were at work?”

“Ah, uh, yeah, I work at a bar – well, technically, it's a roadhouse, just on the outskirts of town. It's uh, relatives – or not really relatives, just family friends, but they're practically family – who run the place, and I, uh, bartend and stuff,” and fuck, Dean just can't stop rambling and he stops, takes a deep breath with closed eyes and exhales, looking up from the ground and into Castiel's eyes. “Sorry, man, I feel like I'm about to drop on my feet – can we at least go inside where it's warm?” 

“Yes,” and they fall into step with each other, shoulders bumping once or twice as they move up the path to the porch. 

“So, feeling better?” Dean asks as he fishes his keys out of his right jacket pocket, feeling awkward trying to put the key into the slot, dropping his head to avoid looking into Castiel's eyes (blue; indigo, azure, cobalt, navy), and finally the door clicks open and the warmth of the house welcomes them. “Your voice is, uh-” 

“Better, yes. Thank you.”

Dean takes off his jacket and puts it on a coathook, turns to take Castiel's and realises he wasn't wearing a coat over his shirt. Dean doesn't say anything and neither does Castiel; instead, they go into the kitchen where Dean takes a beer from the refrigerator and offers one to Cas, who accepts. They drink for a few moments, leaning against the countertop with not much room between them.

“So,” Dean says, picking at the label of his beer, too tired to run the words he's saying through any kind of filter, “Why'd you leave? I mean, if you had a good time, why not stay?” And that's all kinds of embarrassing, admitting his consternation and diffidence, but stops himself before he gets too worked up over it. 

It doesn't matter, anyway. Sam is what matters. Sam is the only thing that matters.

Castiel seems unfazed by it, though, as he deadpans;  “You said that we were only cool as long as I didn't drool on your shirt.” 

For the life of him, Dean can't understand if Castiel is being sarcastic, if he's using Dean's words to avoid the awkward  _I-really-regret-the-part-where-I-kissed-you_ conversation, or if he just really didn't know Dean had been joking. But even though the possibility that it's the second, Dean can't stop laughing. 

“Actually I was afraid my presence would be unwelcome. You do realise I may have given you when my infection when we kissed,” Castiel explains and takes a swig of his beer, finally taking his eyes off Dean. Last night flashes in front of his eyes then as he looks at the older man in front of him, gorgeous, far too gorgeous, wide lips and stubble, blue eyes, the hair – god, the bedhair, _fuck_ – and Dean stops, right there. 

That's enough. 

“Oh. That. Don't worry, had my tonsils removed when I was a kid. They kept getting infected and the doctors figured it was the best solution in the long run.” It hadn't been easy to afford the operation, but Dean doesn't elaborate on the financial troubles of his childhood. Instead, he flashes Castiel a smile and takes another pull from his beer. 

They don't talk much after that, but it's not awkward, it's just there. Castiel leaves with a silent 'goodnight' and a heavy press of his palm against Dean's shoulder, his bottle of beer half drunk, and Dean stays in the kitchen, cleaning the sink, stove and kitchen counter even though his eyes are more closed than open, desperate to postpone sleep.

When he finally goes to bed at one AM, exhausted with the damn crick in his neck that won't go away and an intense humming pain in the small of his back, he can't sleep. He just can't. At half past two he finds the bottle of Jack Daniels he keeps under his bed and drinks until he's drunk enough to sleep.

• • •

Dean wakes at six forty-five, head pounding, drenched in cold, clammy sweat and a sob caught in this throat. He lies still for a few minutes, calming his breath and nerves before he climbs out of bed and into the shower (but at least the water is hot again), stays there under the warm spray until he stops shaking and he has a row with the coffee machine and ends up drinking milk with his breakfast. 

He makes a shopping list and thinks about what to buy Sam for Christmas; God knows the kid deserves more than Dean is ever able to give him, but that thought opens a road Dean's going to step down, not today, because there are things he needs to take care of and he's not going to wallow in self-pity when the time--

Castiel. Castiel was here last night, and oh, God, Dean thinks, he's not going to think about that, either, he decides. Instead he finishes his milk and toast and begins cleaning out the refridgerator, throwing out old leftovers and stale marmelade. There's a jar of honey that has seeped out all over the top shelf in one of the cabinets and Dean has to take the shelf out of the cabinet and wash it with soap until the honey's come off and he throws the leaky jar out; it's not like they are going to eat it, anyway. He decides to clean the rest of the cupboards, now he's at it, and not before long the whole counter is littered with boxes, bags and baskets of various foods. 

Sam tromps down the stairs and stands in the doorway for a few minutes before Dean turns to look at him, soap bubbles up to his elbows as he's scrubbing a shelf in the sink. “Morning, Sammy.” 

“Uh, morning. Wow, you're, eh, productive. How long have you been up?” 

He checks the clock on the kitchen wall and is surprised to see it's almost ten. “Uh, few hours. Couldn't sleep.” 

“Yeah, I can see that.” 

“Hey, shut up, or you're not getting any breakfast,” Dean jokes and whips Sam's stomach with the dish towel, and then they're in a wrestling match, laughing hysterically with tears streaming down their faces just as when they were kids. After that, the day is just a little bit better; Sam helps him clean the rest of the kitchen and it's noon before they're done. Dean fries eggs and bacon while Sam showers and all in all it might not be such a bad day. 

Or that's what Dean thinks until lunch is over and Sam stays in his seat, looking at Dean intently. “So, are you going to tell me what's up with you lately, or should we just both continue to pretend nothing's the matter?”

“Everything's fine,” Dean lies, not because he expects Sam to believe him, but because he can't bring himself to say that he doesn't want to talk about it, because he doesn't have the heart to make Sam feel shut out like that, except that's what he's been doing this whole time, hasn't it? 

“Right. Uh-uh. Yes, of course everything is.” His eyes are glistening and he looks so sad Dean can't look at him, just let his eyes drift over Sam's shoulder to stare into the grey sky. “Dean, you've been having the nightmares again, for months – and don't try to deny it, 'cause I can hear you every night, and it's not like you aren't affected by it all.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, swallowing around this big lump stuck in his throat, and fuck it, fuck everything; fuck being on top of everything, being mr. denial; fuck Sam's concern and compassion; just fuck it. “There's not much to do about it. Just gotta ride it out like last time.” 

Sam doesn't say anything but he doesn't have to, Dean can read him like an open book, right? And it scares him a bit, what he can see in Sam's eyes, because it's the truth that Dean was trying to avoid – that, yeah, maybe he's not going to be able to get over it. Maybe it's not going to get better. Not by itself, anyway. And that's fucking scary.

• • •

Sam and Dean go shopping and spend most of the afternoon at the mall, splitting up to find gifts for each other. There are twinkly lights everywhere, Dean thinks, brightly coloured and blinking and he's afraid he's going to get an epileptic seizure by looking directly at them, but they are everywhere, impossible to oversee, and Dean really hopes he's going to survive this.

He buys a pair of jeans for Sam because he's almost worn or grown out of all the pants he's got, and figures he needs to find a better (keyword: something less sensible) present as compensation. He thinks about buying him a book, but the school library is extensive so it's not like he needs books, and Sam only listens to crappy music, so there's no reason to buy him CD's, either. Dean realises he's not going to be able to afford something luxurious when Sam needs so many basic stuff in the first place.

He ends up buying Sam a messenger bag in dark brown leather at a thrift store and drops the items off in the trunk of the Impala before he meets Sam at the grocery store, not really sure if he should feel satisfied with what he's bought, but shoves the thought into the back of his brain. This isn't the time for yet another depressing investigation of the self-doubt that accompanies him every step of the road, so he puts a smile on his face when he sees Sam and they go looking for a shopping cart.

• • •

He's going to be let down. He's going to let him down. There's nothing he can do to make it work out. He should stop getting his hopes up. It was one kiss. They weren't fully conscious.

It didn't count.

Stop wishing for more.

• • •

 


	3. Well-rested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Miss Chesh, as always. Cookies and lollipops to whoever spots the chick-flick quote!

Dean Winchester is well-rested. Monday comes and goes in a sleepy haze with another burst of snow and when seven AM rolls around Tuesday morning, Dean's slept more than five hours straight. A Christmas miracle, he thinks with a snort, and hums  _Highway to Hell_ while he fries eggs and bacon for Sam who smiles and blushes and feet tripping under the table, unable to wait for his food to cool before he shovels it all into his mouth. Dean wonders why Sam can't wait to get to school, and it takes a minute or two for him to remember Jessica. 

“When's school out for Christmas, again?”

“21st,” Sam answers between two bites of toast and swallows it down with a gulp of coffee. 

“That's – Wednesday, right?” Dean asks and Sam nods. “So Christmas Eve is Saturday.”

“Sure is. Why, you forgot or something?” The tone is Sam's voice is light; no trace or hint of yet another soul-searching conversation and Dean can't wrap his mind around the fact that today might even be a – good – day. 

“I'm thinking about inviting Ellen and the gang. What do you think?” 

“Sounds great.” Sam wipes his mouth and stands up with his plate in hand, heading for the kitchen. “Hey, Dean, we're a bit late, so maybe you could hurry up a bit?”

“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he takes a last sip of coffee. 

“I heard that you jerk!” Sam laughs from the kitchen, and it's fun, they're having legitimate _fun_ , and it's good and Dean can't really think too much about it because he's having too good a time, singing along to AC/DC as he drives Sam to school, and they're on time, and when Dean arrives at the garage Bobby's a grumpy old man like usual, bitching about forms that need to be filled and overdue deliveries like usual. 

Being well-rested? Fucking awesome. 

• • •

“What're you doing for Christmas?” Dean asks Bobby over lunch. The two of them are sitting in Bobby's office eating burgers and fries while Jeff and Brad are out of town, towing in some wreck to check if anything can be salvaged. 

“You know I ain't got no plans,” Bobby grumps. “Probably heading over to the roadhouse or something.” 

“Well, you're welcome at our house. Me and Sammy are gonna invite a few people for Christmas Day, you, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Pamela and Chuck –” _the whole family_ , Dean thinks, except that they're not really family, just friends who haven't got any relatives to spend Christmas with. But maybe that makes them family, after all. 

“Sure thing, kid. Do I gotta bring something?” 

“I'll let you know once I talk to the others,” Dean says and decides then that Bobby can be in charge of beverages, because even if he can cook up a mean chili, he's not really sure it's a good idea to make Bobby responsible for cranberry sauce or apple pie. “Though me and Sam are gonna take care of main dishes, you'll probably just have to bring the liquor.” 

“Great,” Bobby says but there's a tone lingering at the end of the word, like there's something he wants to get across but not really sure how to put it. Before Dean can ask about it, though, he's already being asked: “What's gotten into you today?”

That... wasn't what he'd thought he was going to hear. His eyebrows shoot up as his hand, currently lifting his glass of water to his lips, stops mid-air. “What do you mean?”

“You're-- happy, Dean. You look happy. What's happened?”

He takes a minute to think about this.  Christmas is happening, and that's always, no matter the state of their house or economy or mentality, cause for celebration – huddled up under blankets in front of the television watching cartoons, eating bowls of cheap candy from Walmart while the snow falls over the horizon illuminated by the twinkly lights Dean hates. Yeah, Christmas is always great, even if they're practically orphans, even if they can't always afford presents, even if everything else is falling down on their heads. But that's not really it, though, is it?

_Castiel_ is happening, too, and fuck, Dean's blushing now, stomach doing all these sorts of nervous flip-flops and he tries to hide it by picking up his glass and take a drink. “I slept five hours last night, Bobby. Five hours straight.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can't remember last time I did that.” It's pretty sad, but it's the truth, and Dean wonders if Sam had noticed this morning, or if he was too enthralled in Jessica and school and being a kid to notice that Dean wasn't on the verge of a breakdown again. A dry smile rolls over his lips as he thinks about Sam and what he's going to do with that kid now he's growing up, but he's not alone to figure that out, though, is he? 

“Sometimes it feels like I've forgotten what it's like to have slept properly, you know?” It's like he's been walking behind blurred eyes and he's woken up, literally, and the air he breathes in isn't thin. But he doesn't tell Bobby that; doesn't need to tell Bobby that, because it's Tuesday, it's not a day for serious talk, and then they talk and joke and eat. 

• • •

Dean's having trouble repairing the muffler on an old Chevrolet when Bobby calls for him, saying Ellen's on the phone in the office. He dries his hands on his jeans and accepts the phone from Bobby, placing it between his ear and shoulder, “What's up?”

“You didn't answer your cell so I figured I'd call here,” she says shortly. “Listen, I have to reschedule your shift tonight to 'morrow evening instead, seven to two. All right?” 

“Yeah, sure, why, anything wrong?” 

“I just double-booked Jeff and he wanted tomorrow off, figured you guys could switch.” 

“All right, see you tomorrow then,” Dean says and hangs up, quite happy that he's going to spend the night with Sammy. He hasn't been a good brother the past weeks, he knows, but maybe tonight can make up for it, or at least begin to. He's not going to kid himself; Sam deserves more than Dean can give him, and one good night won't be able to make up for all the bad ones, but maybe it'll show Sam that he's trying, he really is. He's really trying.

• • •

Sam is kissing a girl Dean assumes to be Jessica when he pulls up next to the school. He rolls down the window of the impala, rock blasting through the speakers as he yells, “Hey, moose, leave the poor girl alone!”

Sam pulls away and looks at Dean, lazy smile hanging off his lips which is, even if somewhat disturbing coming from his little brother, an improvement from embarrassed or mad. Jessica cocks an eyebrow, knowing smirk on her lips. “You must be Dean.” 

He leans over to look through the open window, “You must be Jessica. Sorry about the moose attack, you know how it is with wild animals when they're during the rut.” 

Both teenagers blush at this and Dean smirks at himself, opens the passenger door for Sam.  “ Get in, loser. We're going shopping.”

“Actually, would it be all right if I spent the day at Jessica's?” Sam asks, smiling sheepishly. “I thought you were going to work tonight, and I would've called, but I forgot my phone at home, and I couldn't remember your number, so –” 

It would be a lie to say Dean wasn't disappointed, but he's never been able to deny Sam anything, so he puts on his best smile and nods.  “Be back by ten, okay?” 

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam's smile is a genuine smile; not sprung from compassion or concern or sympathy or any of the other billion ways he's been pitying Dean, but gratitude. 

“Okay,” Dean says, nodding once again, final. “I'll see you later. Nice meeting you, Jess,” and he's driving by again and watches them in his rearview mirror walk over to a car – hers, probably - and he's alone, again. 

He stops at the grocery store to buy groceries for the next couple of days. There's a stand with European crime novels on sale, 2 for 10 bucks, and he browses through the titles when someone bumps into him. 

“Hey, Dean,” and it's Pamela there, smiling widely. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Pamela, hey!” Dean says excitedly as they both give each other the once-over, smirk settling into place on his lips. “It's the supermarket. I buy groceries.” 

“I don't mean the store here, I mean _here_ here, in the presence of books,” she laughs and leans against her shopping cart. “Looking for a gift for Sam?” 

“Yeah,” he says and throws the book he's been looking at back among the rest, letting her get way with the joke. “What are you and Chuck doing for Christmas?” 

“His parents are gonna come over, I think, but we haven't heard from them yet.” Dean doesn't bother to ask how she knows because Pam just _knows_ things, she just does. “I'll call later when I've talked to Chuck. Who else are you inviting?”

“Bobby, Ellen, Jo. Ash, maybe, if he's in town,” he says, picking up two books and deciding that there's better things to spend his time on than debating whether it should be something called King's Game or The Key or some other obscure book by a Scandinavian, and just throws both of them into his basket. “Bobby's bringing the booze, me and Sam are making dinner, so if you guys decide to come you could bring treats or candy or cookies or whatever. Ellen's probably making pie.” 

“Sounds great. Catch you later,” she smirks and pushes her cart in the other direction. Dean shakes his head, grinning slightly, because he's missed Pam – he's missed his friends, the few he has and hasn't had time for. Maybe it's for the better, he thinks bitterly as he picks up the last items on his list, that he's not talking to them anymore – Becky and Victor and Rufus, that is – maybe it's meant to be like that. God knows he's let them down more times than they deserve, but maybe, maybe if that's not the way it's meant to be, maybe then he can make it better, somehow. Maybe he can. Maybe he will. But now's not the time to ponder over what's right and what's not, because he's standing in line at the grocery store, and he's having a good day, and fuck if he's not going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

• • •

Dean had successfully spent the better part of the day  _not_ thinking about Castiel (and his lips and eyes), or more correctly – he'd spent the better part of the day  _trying_ not to think about him, which is all the same in the grand scheme of things, he unsuccessfully tries to convince himself – when he sees Castiel's tea standing by itself next to the kettle. He unpacks his groceries, wraps the books and hides them in his closet, all the while debating whether he should go over to Castiel with the bag of leaves, but can't really find a reason not to. 

He decides to wait after dinner because he's starving and tosses together a sandwich, not bothering to really cook anything for himself. The toasted bread is dry and he forces it down with slurps of beer, trying to overcome the fluttering butterflies in his stomach and instead focus on the news program he's watching.

When he's done he glances at the clock and it's almost seven; he figures it's as good a time as any, puts on his jacket and picks up the tea, ready to go. He realizes after taking the first two steps down the porch that he should clear the week's worth of snow from the sidewalk before it turns to ice and goes back inside to find his snow shovel in his closet. He leaves the tea bag inside and clears the path leading the way up to the porch first, then the sidewalk in front of his ground, working hard enough to feel a slight ache in his muscles when he's done. He checks the clock when he goes inside to switch the shovel for the tea and sees he's spent roughly half an hour on clearing the snow, which makes him feel accomplished, somehow. It's always helped him to see the actual results of everything he's done – it's a reminder that he's there, that what he does matters, and that's... That's good.

He knocks on Castiel's door, always preferred knocking opposed to ringing the doorbell, and doesn't wait long before the door opens and he's standing there in front of him, looking just as Dean remembers him, only better.  “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” he says a little too breathlessly, which he tries to make up for by smirking. “You forgot your tea the other night. I hadn't seen it before today, otherwise I would've brought it over –”

“I had forgotten about it, too,” Castiel says and takes the bag from Dean's outstretched hand. “It's not my only bag, so I hadn't noticed I'd left it. Would you like to come in?” 

“Sure,” he accepts and wipes his boots on the doormat before entering and then takes them off once he's in the hallway. “How are you?”

“I'm well, thank you,” he says, and Dean notices how his voice is back to normal – not normal by, well, _normal_ standards – but back to how he remembers it. “I'm planning on returning to work tomorrow. I thought it would be wisest to get the infection out of my system before I was among students again. No reason to make anyone sick up to the holidays, I suppose.” 

Dean laughs internally over this as he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack by the door, thinking to himself how Castiel's precaution hadn't stopped him from kissing Dean during the weekend. He realizes that Castiel must've deemed it worth it, then, which makes him feel pretty damn awesome. “You are right. You are absolutely right. So what are your plans for Christmas?” 

“I don't know yet,” he says, walking through the living room into the kitchen. “Family, I suppose. We're not always... On the best terms, I guess you could say. Tea?” 

“No,” he says, stretching the word out, already backing up against the wall, wide-eyed, favoring turning what Castiel said into a joke rather than take the serious approach and ask about his family. Castiel frowns and looks at him, head tilted, tea bag in one hand, kettle in the other. 

“I take it you don't like tea.” 

“You would be right. Knock yourself out, though,” he says, going back into the living room to look around more closely, because, yeah, he'll admit he's curious about how the real Castiel is opposed to the idea he has of him in his head. He goes past the bookcases and crouches by the modest collection of CD's stashed underneath a moderately sized stereo, browsing through the titles. “Dude, what the hell kind of music is this?” 

A couple of moments later he can feel a tap on his shoulder, beer bottle opened and dangling from Castiel's slender fingers by the neck. It's cold from the condensation and makes a slight wet patch on his sleeve. “Figured you would prefer a beer.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says as he looks up, Castiel looking down at him while drinking from his own bottle, and that's – that's something, Dean decides, and looks down at the albums as he takes a swig of beer. “Florence and the Machine? Seriously?”

“It was a gift, although I've grown rather fond of them,” Castiel notes, and there's something in his voice, a hint of something Dean can't quite decipher. “I thought we could watch a movie, but if you'd rather inspect my collection of music –”

“No, it's fine,” Dean says as he stands, finding Castiel right against him, personal space forgotten. “Do you have one in mind?” 

“My brother informed me it was – a cultural _disaster_ ,” Castiel says, clearly mocking his brother's use of the word, “that I haven't seen Bullitt, so he sent it to me as an early Christmas present.” 

Dean makes a mental note about Castiel's brother but hides it with a grin and goes over to the television to turn it on. “It's awesome. Did you know Steve McQueen did his own stunts? During the car chase he leaned toward the window of the car so the viewers could recognize him.”

“Mhm, fascinating,” he agrees with something Dean can't decide is disinterest of ridicule, but he doesn't really mind, and he pops the disc into the player and settles into the couch next to Castiel, thighs pressing against each other. 

It doesn't take long before he can't focus on anything but the way Castiel licks his lips before he takes a drink, or the way his chest rises with each inhale and falls with every exhale, or the way he smells, and it's been so long since Dean's just sat with somebody where it wasn't all about sex. The last real relationship Dean had had also been the first, but Cassie wanted to heal him, find and fix his lost soul, and he didn't want to be a project, didn't want to be another thing she could accomplish and cross off her list. 

Castiel, however, doesn't seem to be like that. Maybe it's because he doesn't know Dean as well as Cassie had, maybe it's wishful thinking from Dean's behalf, but he's too comfortable right now to really care about it.

He looks over at Castiel and finds he's looking back at him, eyes flicking from eyes to mouth and back up again, and the only response Dean feels there's any logic in is to lean over and kiss him, so that's what he does.

Castiel makes a small, surprised sound, slowly turning into a satisfied hum as he puts his hand on Dean's neck, bringing him down to lie on top of him on the sofa. Dean tangles their legs together, pressing his thigh between Castiel's knees, a soft groan emitting from the man lying under him.

The way Castiel kisses is, in many ways, a reflection of himself; he likes easy open-mouthed kisses, slow and wet but not deep; gentle presses of tongue against his lips, but that's as far as it goes, and it's as incredible as it is frustrating. Castiel holds Dean by his shoulder, hand snaking up under his t-shirt to grip at his skin, and there's something about it that makes it harder for Dean to breathe.

He breaks contact for air and rests his forehead against Castiel's neck, stubble scraping his skin, and he can feel Castiel's other hand on his waist, slowly turning him so they both lie on their sides on the wide couch. His right hand isn't touching his shoulder anymore, but his left is drawing circles on his back under his clothes, and  _fuck,_ Dean needs a minute to cool off. Before he can say anything, though, Castiel dives back in, and it's all a flutter of touches and kisses after that. 

There's an explosion on the television which brings his mind back from  ' _fuck, hot, lips, shit, fuck, holy –'_ and he leans away to look at Castiel.  “I, uh...”

The older man is smiling at him, gently, still tracing circles on his back and Dean shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate.  “ Fuck, Cas, just, I – I'll be right back,” he says, untangling their limbs as he stands awkwardly up, picks up their empty beer bottles (when had they knocked them off the coffee table?) and brings them with him into the kitchen. 

Dean places his hands on the countertop and leans into it, closes his eyes and tries to calm himself down, because it's embarrassing, is what it is, how Castiel can strip all his control and defenses away with just a single brush of his lips, and, fuck, he's just out of his depth with him.

He goes into the adjoining pantry to put the empty bottles with the rest of the trash when he hears Castiel calling from the living room,  “ Dean? Your phone's ringing.” 

“I'll be a second, just answer it,” he says, because he'd totally forgotten about Sam while he was over here, and it could be him calling, wondering why Dean's not at home. He checks his watch as he walks back through the kitchen and it's past nine, so maybe he should be getting back, after all – he needs to pack Sam's lunch for tomorrow, and there's no telling what will happen if he gets back on that couch with Castiel. 

“Dean is back now,” the man in question says when Dean comes back into the living room and hands him the phone. “It's a woman named Pamela.” 

“Pam, hey,” Dean says into the mouthpiece and winks at Castiel, nodding at him to let him know everything's fine, and when she begins to speak, he turns around to hide the blush from Castiel, because there is a great deal of good things to say about Pam, but her tact – or lack of such – isn't one of them. He interrupts her while she's listing the theories behind Castiel's throaty voice, not caring if he is humoring her, because that part of the conversation needs to end, _now._ “So, Christmas? You guys coming?” 

“Count us in, sugar. We'll bring the sweets, although it sounds like you've got enough of that already –” 

“Funny, you are. All right, I'll talk to you later. Say hi to Chuck for me, will you?” He turns around again as he ends the call and sees Castiel sitting on the couch, cross-legged, hands in his lap and looking earnestly at Dean. “A friend of mine. Called to let me know she and her husband are coming over for Christmas.” He doesn't really know why he feels the need to make sure Castiel knows that Pamela is a friend, a married friend, but he's determined not to let any misunderstandings get in the way of – this, whatever _this_ is. 

“Okay,” Castiel says, and that's it, then. 

“I need to get back,” Dean says, already bolting for the door, because Castiel's lips are still swollen and _fuck_ , he's not going to think about that, not going to think about full lips and warm hands and blue eyes. No, he's going to think about getting back and taking a nice cold shower. Yes. That's exactly what he's going to think about. “Sam's getting home soon, so...” 

“I understand.” He uncrosses his legs and stands up, walks with Dean in silence to the door where Dean puts on his jacket and shoes, not really looking at Castiel, but not really looking away from him, either. “Thank you for tonight, Dean. It was... fun.” 

A grin spreads over Dean's lips as he opens the door and lets a waft of cold air enter the house. “Sure was, Cas,” he smirks and bites his lip before walking out the door, having to remind himself with each step he takes away from Castiel that going back there and having his way with him won't really make things better in the long run.

He's not entirely sure it's true, though, but that's what he tells himself, after all. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Sorry for the wait, guys, but I'm busy with exams (I'm a senior, so I'll be graduating in less than a month!) - be patient! :)


	4. Hopeful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but like most students I'm neck-deep in exams, so I haven't had time to write! The first chapter of this story was very long because it was originally only going to be a one-shot, but I think I'm going to keep the length of the chapters around 3-3.5K word count. Beta-read as always by mybelovedchesire, and any questions are welcomed at my tumblr account :-)

Dean Winchester is hopeful. He's also pretty damn aroused, but that's not the point right now. Nope. No sir. The point is that he's hopeful.

Hopeful. Yes.

Oh, who is he kidding, he's aroused. It's actually close to fucking embarrassing – or it will be when Sam gets home in what, half an hour tops? It's going to be embarrassing, and that's embarrassing enough in itself, and fuck, he really can't think straight. He takes a shower and jerks off, managing to dry himself off and get dressed just in time, before Sam walks in the front door with a huge smile on his face that probably wouldn't have been there if Dean had greeted him while sporting a massive boner.

 _Parenting: you're doing it right, Dean Winchester,_ he tells himself, and follows Sam into the kitchen.

“God, Dean, I'm so hungry!”

“They didn't feed you? Poor baby moose,” Dean snickers and finds the bread from the cabinet.

“Dude, seriously, that joke's not funny anymore,” Sam pulls a bitchface and finds the salami and cheese from the fridge. “I just didn't wanna, y'know, seem like a glutton.”

Dean feels a small surge of pride – for Sam, for himself – and it's nice, standing here making Sam's lunch for tomorrow while Sam prattles on about his day with Jessica while he's got bologna falling out of his mouth.

He goes to bed later and can't sleep, can't think of anything but Castiel's smile and the butterflies in his stomach that won't go away, and what's that? Yeah, that's hope, and it's so rare that Dean can't decide if caution or elation is the right way to greet it. By the time he falls asleep, too many hours after midnight, he hasn't come to any conclusion.

  * •   •



He's barely taken two steps into the Roadhouse before Jo grabs him by the arm, “I need to speak with you.”

“Oh-kay,” he answers, shooting a look at Ellen who shakes her head, apparently unaware of the exciting news. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s – at school, I was talking to some friends, and, uh. It’s about Castiel.” She doesn’t say anything more until they’re both in the kitchen, safely behind shut doors.” I was trying to see if I could sneak some gossip on him,” she begins, and Dean already knows where this is going, and isn't quite sure if he wants to hear what she heard, true or not. “And, well, there are a lot of rumors about him, I'll tell you that – did you know his brother Gabe supposedly-” but she shuts up by the time she sees the look on his face.

“Jo, what?” He’s purposely trying to convince her he’s more annoyed than he really is, because yeah, he’s curious, but he’s impatient most of all. “Just say it.”

 “Word around campus is he’s seeing someone,” she says, fast enough that Dean knows it’s been weighing on her. “A guy, not a girl. Some people think he’s bisexual, but there’s no doubt he likes dick.” When Dean doesn’t say anything, she continues, “People have seen him around town with this guy, like every now and again. They think they’re, like, seriously, deeply committed, the _we’ve been together forever and always will be_ \- kind of committed.”

“How sure are you?” He tries to keep his voice and expression even, because he’d had hope, damnit. He’d actually _hoped_ it could turn out well for once.

“Well, my friend Chrissy said she saw the guy herself – sort of Cas’ height, blonde, ridiculously attractive, apparently… Honey, I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

“Great, that’s just _great_ ,” Dean mutters, shaking his head as he laughs bitterly. “Of course he’s got a boyfriend. Yeah, because nothing ever works out for me, does it?”

“Dean…”

“No, Jo, no, just don’t,” he says and realizes he’s rubbing the back of his neck, _again_ , and dude, isn’t that just swell. “I’m going to talk to Cas about this, and you are going to shut your piehole, ‘kay?”

“Hey, I was just trying to do you a favor! Don’t blame this on me, ‘cause Cas being a cheating asshole is not my fault!”

“Hey, this isn’t any of your business, so stay out of it, okay!”  Fantastic, they’re shouting now, full-blown fight in the making. Jo snaps back, and before Dean can absorb what’s really happening they’re screaming simultaneously, throwing papers and shit lying on the table onto the floor.

The door opens and Ellen’s standing on the other side, making both of them shut up. “What’s going on? Why you guys fightin’?”

“Dean’s being a little bitch,” Jo grumbles and crosses her eyes, refusing to look at any of them.

“You might wanna teach your daughter to mind her own business,” Dean huffs and tries to side-step around Ellen, who yanks him back into the kitchen by his shirt-sleeve.

“Dean Winchester, you do not get to tell me what to do or how I should raise my girl, you hear me?” Her voice is stern and makes him feel like a little boy; he doesn’t know what to do besides nod, so he does so with a gulp. Jo hides a smirk behind a hand, which both Ellen and Dean notice. “Joanna Beth, don’t think you’re gonna get out of this easy. Dean, you clean up this mess right now, you hear me? I’m not paying either of you to stand in the kitchen hollerin’ at each other. Jo, come with me,” she says and the girl follows her mother back out while Dean picks up the papers and trash.

They make up later – or as close to making up as they can without talking about it, and by midnight they’re arguing about Aerosmith vs. Guns’n’Roses, just like always, even if there’s a hint of bitterness in Jo’s playful voice.

Ash strolls into the Roadhouse when they’re closing up around two, and Dean decides to stay for a beer and catch up with him. It seems like Ash is doing well, even if his hair is still atrocious, Dean thinks with a grin, and realizes that _might_ be too gay of him, so he steers himself up and takes another swig of his beer. He asks them all over for Christmas and they smile and say thanks and agree and Dean is actually humming under his breath on his way back home.

Then he remembers Castiel and his blonde, attractive boyfriend, and all that happiness and – oh, what was that, was that hope? – goes right out the door.

  * •   •



So if Dean is in a crappy mood when Sam says good morning to him the next day, or if he’s being cranky towards customers and yells a little too much at Bobby the next day, it’s not his fault.

No.

It’s Jo’s fault and Castiel’s fault and fucking Blondie’s fault, and, _oh_. It’s really his fault, isn’t it? Of course it is, damnit, because blaming his shit on everyone else – blaming it on _Sam_ , in particular - is too low, even for him.

 _Get a grip, Dean._ Get a grip.

He continues to work on the exhaust of an eleven year old Jeep until his head is pounding with fatigue and his hands and shoulders ache and then he works some more. He forgets the time and when he realizes he’s running late to pick up Sam, he hits his head too soon and hits it on the car’s rear end as he rolls out from underneath it

He and Bobby argue whether or not he should put ice on the bump that’ll undoubtedly form sooner or later (Bobby says it’s a bad idea, that due to the external pressure the swelling will form on the inside of his head, which “is about as good an idea as getting your ass pecked by a coupla’ wild roosters, believe me, kid”) and they fight some more until Dean realizes this is only making him even more late to pick up Sam.

But when he stands up from the chair Bobby forced him to sit down on, he gets really dizzy, and next thing he knows he’s lying on the floor, and just after that everything goes dark.

  * •   •



It’s the sound of voices that wake him up. Dean doesn’t exactly remember why he’s sleeping on Bobby’s sofa in the reception of the garage (or what they refer to as the reception, even if it’s just an old living room with a couch, a coffee table with a few magazines and a radio playing from the corner), but he doesn’t think about that right now.

Mostly he thinks about what Bobby would do to him if he threw up all over the rug and if he’d force Dean to clean it himself. Eventually, he decides not to test it, lies flat on his back and breathes through his nose, trying very hard to focus on that rather than his nausea or the sharp throb at the front of his head.

“Dean? You’re awake.”

He looks to where the voice comes from and Castiel is standing there in that ridiculous trench coat, hair askew, tie crooked. “Cas?”

“Sam called. He said you needed someone to take you back home, so I came.” He takes a couple of steps closer to Dean and smiles pitifully at him. “I was just talking to Mr. Singer.”

“Bobby?” Dean asks, looking to see him coming in after Castiel. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” He tries shaking his head, but that doesn’t help his nausea at all, and closes his eyes against the bright lights as he lets his head rest on the cushions again. “You hit your head while you were fixing up that Jeep’s exhaust. After you passed out I called Sam to let him know what happened, so he wouldn’t wait for you.”

“Sam called me and explained what had happened,” Castiel says and looks down at his hands, and Dean knows that bashful look on him, telling him he feels out of place in their family. “He’s staying at some friend of his. Joel, I think.”

“You woke up after a couple of minutes, but you fell back to sleep just when I’d put you on the couch, so I figured you needed to sleep.”

“How long was I out?” He groans, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.

“Half an hour, maybe less,” Bobby replies and puts his hands in his pockets. “I would’ve taken you home myself, but Cas here showed up before you woke up again, so.”

“Great,” Dean mutters under his breath and can’t really figure out if he’s being sarcastic or not, because being around Castiel has up until now always been nice, but he’s not sure enough of his – whatever it is he has – with Castiel to share it with anyone unless he has to, particularly so after what Jo told him last night. “Gimme a hand here, Cas?”

His hand is cold and dry against Dean’s as he pulls him slowly to his feet, steadying him, another hand gripping his shoulder through the thin and clammy material of Dean’s t-shirt, and he’s cold and just wants to go home and not deal with all this crap of whatever the fuck this is. 

They stop by a Chinese place on the way back home and Castiel scuttles inside to get them their food. When he comes back Dean thinks about how Castiel is actually a good driver, all things – especially that he’s driving a _Prius_ , Jesus fucking Christ – considered, instead of how his long fingers linger on the steering wheel or the small furrow between his brows.

“You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?” Dean asks when Castiel parks his car outside Dean’s house, not his own, and both of them exit the car at the same time.

“Yes. I don’t think it’s wise for you to be alone right now in case something happens.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders, too tired and sore to argue. “Fair enough. I just want to shower and sleep.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel mimicks, and Dean laughs a little as they trudge through the snow up the house. Inside, Dean discards his clothes once he’s inside the bathroom and stays into the warm shower until he hears a knock on the door.

“Dean?” He can barely hear him over the spray of water and he turns off the water.

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep again,” Castiel replies, and something inside Dean aches with tenderness. It’s a kind of comfort he’s never had before and he doesn’t really want to lose it now that he’s beginning to experience it.

“Nope, I’m still awake,” he replies with the painfully obvious answer and decides he might as well dry himself off now he’s not showering anymore. “I’ll be a second.”

He puts the dirty clothes in the laundry basket by the floor and wraps himself up in a towel. The door opens a little bit and a pair of jeans, underwear, t-shirt and a flannel is pushed through the opening crack onto the tile floor.

“Figured you’d prefer me finding you some clothes rather than walking through the house naked. I think these are clean. They were in a basket in your bedroom. I didn’t want to go through your dresser,” Castiel says in a low voice and closes the door after him, and fuck, Dean thinks, he’s ready to drop down on both knees and name Thursday the official day of worshipping Castiel.

He dresses and goes to the living room to find Castiel sitting cross-legged on the couch. He’s stripped off the trench coat and tie and has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, eating noodles from one of the boxes and drinking soda from a bottle, staring into thin air. Dean picks up a box of rice and spring rolls on the dinner table and flops down next to him.

“Thanks,” he says eventually after having satiated the worst of his hunger. Castiel nods and hands him his soda, which he empties. He goes to the kitchen to find another one and Dean steals some of the fried shrimp from Castiel’s box.  “Sorry I’m not very… chatty, today, I mean.”

“It’s okay,” he says when he returns. “I’m not, either. Had a long day at work.” 

“I thought school was out now? I mean, the fall term’s ended, right?”

“Yes, but there’s a lot of grading to be done – papers, exams, preparation for the next term… I’m going to start a new class of biophysics majors, which I’m looking forward to. I haven’t taught the application of quantum mechanics to biological processes before, so it’s going to be a challenge.”

“Yeah, I know, a friend of mine’s going to be taking your class,” Dean says before he can think twice. “She said you’re… nevermind.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Dean shakes his head, which he really shouldn’t do with what he thinks might be a concussion. “It doesn’t matter.”

The silence stretches on until they’re done eating and Castiel speaks up. “Dean, I haven’t been completely honest with you,” and fuck, he knows what’s coming, doesn’t he, the big speech he’s been preparing himself for all day except that he’s not ready to hear this at all. “It was a lie when I said I didn’t have any Christmas plans. I –”

“You’re seeing somebody else,” Dean finishes for him and he can feel Castiel looking at him, his gaze crawling over his skin like ants, but he can’t bring himself to look at him.

“No,” Castiel begins and, _oh, don’t get your hope up again, Dean Winchester_ , Dean scolds himself, because being let down by the same guy over the same reason so many times in a row over such a short amount of time? It can’t be healthy. “Or yes.”

“Oh.”

“I’m… I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I agreed to spend Christmas with him some months ago when I didn’t know if I was going see my family. That part was true, actually – we’re not really close, except for my siblings and I, of course.”

Dean figures he has to say something, sometime, and chooses the easier subject. “Why aren’t you, anyway?”

“They still live in England,” Castiel says with a shrug. “We moved there when I was young. I met Balthazar there. When I moved back to the States, he came with.”

“That’s his name? Balthazar?” Dean huffs and wishes he had a beer or something to do with his hands, so he rubs the back of his neck as always. “Like the writer.”

“Yes,” Castiel says with a quiet laugh, as if there’s a private joke tied into it somewhere. “Anyway, we’ve not been in a committed relationship with each other for the past three, four years or so. It’s- I’m not sure if I’m still… If _he’s_ still my boyfriend, which I hope to find out once he’s here.”

“So why are you telling me?” Dean’s throat feels dry; too dry, considering this thing with Castiel has only been going on for a week.

“I didn’t think it would be fair to you if I let you continue to believe I was completely…”

“Free,” Dean finishes for him, hoping to be contradicted, but instead he sees a sad smile in Castiel’s eyes as he nods.

“I am sorry, Dean. I didn’t think this through. I am, to some extent, monogamous, even if Balthazar isn’t, and I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to see each other like this when I’m not sure if I’m still… bound to someone else.

“It’s okay, Cas.” But it’s not, not really. Dean can’t tell him that, though, can he? No, he can’t. “I get it.”

“I just need to be sure that I’m not going to leave you hanging in thin air if Balthazar and I are…”

But that, Dean thinks, is exactly what Castiel is doing – leaving him hanging without anything to hold onto, a glimpse of a promise that if Balthazar wasn’t part of the equation, there could be _more_. Screw good intentions, he thinks grimly and can’t help himself going slightly rigid when Castiel lays his hand on his shoulder. “Dean…”

“Cas, you know what, I’m really tired, so if you’d just-”

He doesn’t need to say more, which pleases him. What doesn’t please him is the fact that Castiel actually listens and leaves.

He checks his phone once he’s packed away the leftovers from dinner and sees a text from Sam, saying that he’s going to spend the night at Joel’s, which is about the only good thing about the whole ordeal, because it’s not like Dean could go pick him up and –

Fuck. His car is still at the garage.

Fuck.

 


	5. Sleep-deprived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, fuck, bugger. I'm so sorry I forgot about this, but I truly did, honestly. Since the middle of the Summer and until Christmas I was living at a boarding school where I made documentary films for half a year, and that was basically all I did. I didn't write anything and I was so caught up with movie-making that I forgot about my responsibility as a fanfic-writer. Anyway, I'm truly, awfully sorry and hope you all understand my priorities. Not beta-read.

Dean Winchester is sleep-deprived. He doesn’t really sleep much that night, and not before it’s almost morning again, the clock having gone by five o’clock by the time his eyes stay shut. He’s woken by the doorbell and doesn’t check the time before he puts on his pants and walks to the door.

Castiel is standing on the other side, looking equal parts uncomfortable and determined. “Good morning, Dean.”

“What do you want?” Dean says with a yawn, his sleep-addled mind not filtering the words before they spill out.

“Oh, I’m sorry I woke you. I thought I’d give you a ride to the garage so you could pick up your car, unless you feel too weak to drive.”

“Oh, sure, no, it’s fine, just gimme a sec, Cas,” he says and walks back inside. “Thanks. Come on in.”

He hears the door close behind him and he enters his bedroom, finds a henley he’s not sure is clean or not. He looks at the clock and the red writing blinks 10:08 at him. In the bathroom he brushes his teeth and downs a couple of Advil for the headache, looks at the purple lump that has formed over his right brow and the yellow bruising under his eye. “Shit,” he mutters and splashes cold water on his face, stands with his hands on either side of the sink and breathes in deep. “Shit.”

Castiel is waiting for him in the kitchen, and, God bless him, he’s made coffee. “I figured you could use a cup.”

Dean almost calls him an angel but refrains from doing so, because… Because _fucking_ _Blondie_ , is fucking why – and accepts the mug from him. “Why aren’t you at work yet?”

“Just need to finish grading some papers and stuff like that,” Castiel shrugs, leaning against the counter, trying not to show his ungainliness. “No need for me to get up early.”

“Huh,” Dean huffs into his coffee and takes a final gulp. “Figured you were a habit guy, y’know, the kind of person to get up at six o’clock every morning, even on Sundays.”

And when Dean looks back up from the black liquid he’s staring directly into the blue of Castiel’s eyes, and when Castiel says, “I couldn’t fall sleep last night,” as a way to explain, Dean’s lost.

He empties his mug, puts it in the sink and walks on unsteady legs out to the hallway where he puts on his leather jacket with shaking hands.

“Are you ready to leave?” Castiel says in a low voice, standing just behind him – Dean hadn't heard him coming, blood pounding in his ears too loud – and he nods, gruffs _yeah_ , coughs twice and walks out of and locks the door after Castiel.

The Toyota Prius is cold and it takes a while for it to heat up, despite how new the car is. Castiel doesn't say anything on the drive . Neither does Dean. He doesn't think he has anything to say.

When Castiel parks outside the auto shop, something stops Dean from opening the door and exiting the car. He stays there and when he looks to his side, to Castiel, he finds him looking back at Dean, a heavy weight to his eyes, mirroring the burden he put on Dean through last night's conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asks, and, shit, he's never been asked so directly before, because he knows Castiel isn't only referring to what's going on between them, but that the offer regards everything that's been bothering him, because of course Castiel knows about his troubles – of course he can tell, everyone has been able to, haven't they, so why should he be an exception?

Logically, Dean knows it doesn't make any sense for him to do what his instincs tell him to – deny and leave, break off the conversation, stop the train before it picks up its speed on the way out of the platform – but he can't quite fight it, either. “Not really, no. I don't want to – uh, no.” The words that follow stay inside his head, _No,_ _I don't want anything from you right now._

Castiel's eyes goes down to his lap, and Dean is torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to yell at him. He does neither, just opens the door, walks out and shuts it after himself without thanking him for the ride.

He doesn't turn around to look at Castiel who doesn't drive away, judging by the silence in the air, and when he gets inside Bobby's house he leans against the closed door and takes two deep breaths before calling out, “Anybody here?”

Bobby comes out from his office, “What on earth are you doing here, boy? How did you even get here?”

“Came to pick up my car. Cas drove me,” Dean explains with a shrug, and Bobby catches up with his mood at once, going by the fact that he doesn't ask him any more questions, just hands him a mug of coffee and tells him, strictly, _no work, dumbass._

In the end, Dean decides to stay and wait until he has to pick Sam up, tries unsuccesfully to do some paperwork for Bobby but gets dizzy from reading for too long, and takes a nap on the couch.

He wakes up around lunch and calls Sam during break while Bobby's warming up some leftovers in the kitchenette. “Hey bitch, didya miss me?”

“Dean! How're you today? Nauseous? Dizzy? 'Cause a concussion can give those symptoms, and wait, where are you? You're not at work, right, because you're not in any condition to-”

“Stop fussing and shut up, Sammy, I'm fine.” Dean sits up from the lying position he'd taken on the couch. “When's school off? I'm picking you up.”

“No, no, it's fine, I don't think you should drive if you're not, uh, and, well, I already talked to Cas, and he'd drive me home once he's done at work.”

“You called Cas again, huh?” Dean asks, rubbing his eyes with his hand, tired of his stupid brother, tired of secret boyfriends, tired of Castiel's blue eyes and dark hair and red lips.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about last night,” Sam stops to laugh. “You’re welcome.”

“He’s not – I mean, Sam, me and Cas aren’t going to, you know. We’re not together,” Dean sighs, getting up from the couch, his knees protesting under the weight. Everything hurts today.

“Sure looks like it,” the kid snorts, and something inside Dean breaks a little.

“Well, apparently he’s seeing this other guy who’s not me, so I guess we _aren’t_.”

It's dead silent on the other end for a while. “Shit, Dean, I'm sorry, man.”

“Yeah, well, too good to be true, right? Anyway, sure, take the ride with him, I don't care. See you at home.” He doesn't wait for Sam to answer before he turns off his phone and clutches it in his hand, taking deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm himself down.

A week. It had only been a week. Seven days. Stop it.

• • •

After lunch Dean begins cleaning around the shop, not knowing what else to do but determined not to go home before he has to. He's always been better with actions than sitting around and doing nothing. When there's nothing left to fix, or clean, or correct, when he's ready to go home, a tow truck pulls into the garage with a car in tow and he figures he can stay and see if it's worth sticking around for.

The truck slows to a stop in the yard and Dean and Bobby go out to have a look; a blonde middle-aged man steps out of the passenger seat of the truck and Dean _knows_ , knows right then and there that there was a divine reason he didn't go home just yet.

“Mr. Singer, am I right?” the man approaches Bobby and shakes his hand, thick British accent rolling off his tongue.

“Sure is,” Bobby answers and nods to Dean. “I'll take a look at your car if you'll go fill out the paperwork with Mr. Winchester.”

Dean turns around on his heels and stalks back into the office, telling himself to calm down, be cool, just _don't fucking fanboy._

“I've driven close to 300 miles, and my car decides to break down 10 miles from my destination.”

“Sucks man, but don't worry, we're gonna have you up and running again in no time unless we've run out of spare parts or something,” Dean shrugs, trying to be casual.

“Fantastic. Now, tell me, how do I call a cabbie?” The man grins, unquestionably annoyed by this whole ordeal but at least not being a dick about it, which Dean kind of admires. The last thing Dean needs right now is to have Balthazar Dupuis, dystopic science fiction author and possibly the closest thing Dean has to a celebrity crush, blame him for bad service. “Someone is waiting for me and I'd rather be waiting for my car to get fixed in bed than in a chair in your waiting room.”

 _He's Cas' boyfriend,_ Dean thinks suddenly and reviews what he knows; the man was blond, middle-aged, attractive, and Castiel had said his boyfriend was named Balthazar, to which Dean had asked “like the writer?”, and Castiel had... There'd been a look on his face, and he knows what that means right now, knows for a goddamned fact that the universe just hates him that much not to throw in another fucked-up coincidence into his life. God just had to fuck him over once more because his life can't just be half-bad – or really bad, as it is – it has to be the worst possible. “Visiting the boyfriend?”

Balthazar looks up from the form he's currently signing, cocked brow and a short laugh out his mouth before he speaks, “Should I be offended or impressed of your guess?”

“It's not like that,” Dean begins and accepts the paper back from the customer, “I think I know him. Cas, right?”

“You know Castiel?”

“Yeah, I mean, he lives in the house next to mine, so...” Dean trails off, extremely uncomfortable talking about it. “Actually, I think I could give you a ride back, if you-”

“That's great, uh...”

“Dean.” He extends his hand and Balthazar shakes it, and there's an uncertain silence in the air, and he doesn't know what to do, so he just coughs and puts the papers in the right stack. “I'll go check on Bobby, hear how long it'll take. By the way, I'm not really in any condition to drive, so it might be better if you –”

“Is it the '67 Chevy Impala parked in the back?” He asks and Dean nods, smirking, proud of his baby (even if it is the only thing to be proud of right then and there). “I'd love to.”

• • •

Dean has, admittedly, spent a great amount of time wondering how his first encounter with his favourite writer since the great Kurt Vonnegut might come to pass. He has imagined them meeting in bars, bookstores, on the streets and even once or twice at the local laundromat. Never, however, in his wildest imagination, had it ever been so awkward as it turned out to be.

Dean doesn't consider himself a shy or introverted person. He's good at chatting up strangers; works two jobs that both include costumer-service, and he makes most of his earning in tips by his small-talk and easy smile. None of his skills are helping him right now.

He's considering turning on the stereo to help lighten the mood (even though the driver picks the music it's _his_ car) but he's caught between a rock and a hard place: either Balthazar doesn't like the music, which is embarrassing because a part of Dean wants him to like him, even if he's screwing the man he may or may not have a crush on, or Balthazar will like the music and they will talk and bond and become friends, which will make it so much harder for Dean to hate him – which he will eventually do, because yeah, the man writes books that make grown men weep, but still, he's screweing _Castiel_.

No one except Dean is allowed to do that. And when had he become to possesive, anyway? Was it before or after he realised he wasn't going to get anything he wanted in life unless he clung onto it with both hands and still followed it down the gutter?

“I imagine Castiel gets quite lonely, sometimes, here,” Balthazar remarks as he makes a turn into the neighborhood they live in. “With most of his friends and family left in England, I mean.”

Dean doesn't know if the comment is intended to be insulting or if that's just how he normally speaks, but it doesn't make him like Balthazar more. “We're just neighbors, I mean... I wouldn't know.”

“But you did know I'm his boyfriend?” Balthazar smirks.

 _He said he didn't know if you still were, you cheating scumbag,_ Dean thinks bitterly, and who would cheat on Castiel, anyway? Did he cheat? Isn't that what Castiel had insinuated? “Uh, he told me. Kind of.”

The older man laughs at him and pulls onto the curb in front of the silver Prius. “Thank you for the lift, Dean Winchester. Most appreciated. I'll let you know if ever I need chauffeuring again.”

They leave the car at the same time and Balthazar throws Dean the keys after he locks the door after him, picking up his bags in the trunk. Angry, Dean marches into his house and begins sorting all their laundry in a furious manner, throwing shirts and linens and socks all over their basement before, finally, coming to rest against the cool tile wall and trying to calm his ragged breathing.

It's going to be all right.

It's going to be all right.

It's going to be all right.

• • •

Like hell it is.

 

 


	6. Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this one was hell. I'm back and for real this time, don't worry. Many - many - thanks to my wonderful beta, [Lauren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysfallenangel), who pushed me and pushed me and then pushed me some more - and then I wrote something. And this is that something.

 

Dean Winchester is tired. The time is almost eleven on Christmas Eve and he's lying on the couch with Sam snoring against his shoulder, a bowl of half-eaten candy in his lap. The Godfather is still playing on the television, one of their few but memorable Christmas traditions. Dean isn't quite sure that he would sleep if he went to bed, but it's been a good night and he doesn't want to ruin it by staying up too late and thinking about all the things that are bound to depress him if he lets them. So he turns off the television and wakes up Sam who mopes with a dazed look in his half-opened eyes and tells him, “Merry Christmas, jerk,” before he goes to his room and passes out on his bed, still dressed, presumably.

Dean stands up, knees protesting, and picks up the bowl and puts it in a cupboard in the kitchen. On the way back to his room he stops to look at a few framed pictures hanging on the walls; one of him and Sam, from when they were both still kids, sitting on the living-room floor with a box of LEGOs between them. Dean has no idea who took the picture. Another one, this one from Dean's graduation party, of him and Jo sitting on the front porch holding hands. There's a picture of his parents, too, from way back in the '70s, before Dean and Sam were born, and something inside of Dean aches intensely for the kind of peace they seem to possess in the frozen moment captured on film.

Shaking it off, he goes to the bathroom and takes a piss, brushes his teeth and collapses on his bed still fully dressed. He thinks about Castiel until he realises he's doing something that goes right against his _don't get sad_ agenda for tonight, and he shakes himself, undresses and then falls under the covers.

He's never been a religious man, always figured praying was as close to begging as it gets, but it's Christmas, and he still remembers glimpses of how his mom was, bright smiles and floral perfume and always humming a song under her breath, and he finds himself praying for her, to her; _I hope you're all right wherever you are, and where are you, why aren't you here anymore, what did I do, what did_ he _do, God, mom, why aren't you here?_

Through tear-blurred eyes Dean sees Sam standing in the door opening, and neither of them speaks, but Sam walks over to the bed and crawls under the covers with Dean and just lies there next to him until he calms down enough to fall asleep.

• • •

His moose of a little brother is softly snoring when Dean wakes around nine on Christmas morning, so he tiptoes out of the room and starts cooking breakfast, looking through all the fully-stocked cabinets for things to do. He makes coffee for starters; drinks a cup staring out the window at the falling snow. He catches a glimpse of Castiel through his window, sitting alone in his living room, not doing anything, and Dean laughs because despite their differences at least the solitude on Christmas morning is something they share. The laugh turns bitter and he shakes it off, forces himself to look away and then he gets busy. He makes bacon pancakes and keeps them warm in the oven while he carves out a few oranges.

He sets the table and gets everything ready before he goes back into his room. “Wake up Sammy,” he calls, laughing, and ducks as his little brother throws a pillow at him. “Merry Christmas, bitch. I made breakfast.”

“Ngh, m'kay, sure,” he groans and pulls the duvet up over his head. “What time is it?”

“Half past nine, so get up because we have to get a lotta shit ready before Bobby and Ellen'll be here,” Dean says and pulls away his duvet. “Also I got you a few presents you might wanna open first.”

Sam gets up at that, lazy smile on his lips as he brushes his hair out of his face. “Presents? Dean, I-”

“If you say I shouldn't have, I'm gonna kick your ass so hard you'll be too sore to sit all the way into the new year.”

His little brother laughs at that and finally gets up from Dean's bed, stretching and watching Dean procure a small stack of presents from under his bed. “I'll be right back,” he says and walks out of the bedroom, still laughing. Dean puts the presents next to Sam's plate and fetches the pancakes from the oven; still hot, thank fuck. Cold pancakes _suck_.

“Here,” Sam says and hands him two presents wrapped way better than Dean's (who'd had to make do with old newspapers and some pink wrapping paper leftover from Pam and Chuck's wedding), one rectangle in deep green with a red bow and a second one, a small black jewelry box.

“Sammy, I'm flattered,” Dean cracks, staring at the little box in front of him. “Really. You shouldn't have.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam grumps and pours himself some coffee. “I'm going out on a limb here.”'

Dean opens the small black box first and there's a broad silver ring nestled inside; a band of plain silver with a smaller detailed band inside, which he makes spin around with a flick of his fingers. “Sam, where'd you-”

“I found it at that medieval festival we went to with history class in October,” Sam smiles wide, fidgeting in his seat. “So do you like it?”

“Yeah,” he breathes and takes it out of the casing and tries it on a few fingers before it settles on his left index finger. “Thanks.”

The stupid smile on Sam's lips makes Dean feel a bit self-conscious and he lifts a few pancakes on his plate. “Eat them before they get cold, Sam.”

Sam huffs and digs in while Dean opens the other gift. It's a framed picture of their mother just as Dean remembers her; golden hair and bright green eyes and a wide smile. “Where did you-”

“Bobby gave it to me a few weeks ago. Said he'd found it in an old album, but I don't know. I don't really remember her, so I figured you would appreciate it more than me.”

Dean's throat is lacing up and he stares at the picture until there are tears in his eyes that he has to blink away. “Yeah, thanks,” he croaks and sets the photo down on the table next to his plate. He's almost falling apart but Sam picks him up by telling him “wow, Dean, these are really good,” and helps himself to some more pancakes, and Dean forces himself to laugh, and his throat hurts and it comes out raspy and strangled, but he does it and begins eating too.

“Aren't you gonna open yours?” Dean asks, because he knows Sam's waiting for him to ask, but he doesn't really want Sam to do so. He feels crappy since Sam had known just exactly what Dean wanted instead of what he needed, and he hadn't been able to do that for him. “They're not getting better just because you wait.”

“I'm sure they're great, Dean,” Sam says and opens the big one first and finds the leather shoulder bag inside. The look on his face is priceless, though, so Dean feels slightly better, especially so when Sam bursts out, “Oh my God, Dean, this is amazing, where'd you find it, the leather's so soft-”

“You're such a girl, Sammy,” Dean laughs and drinks some coffee. “Next.”

Sam obliges and opens the small ones containing the books. He's not quite as enthusiastic about them, but happy all the same – Dean knows Sam has always wanted to have a book collection large enough to qualify as a library, and that any contribution is considered a blessing. Sam is happy about the jeans, though, which is a plus, and declares that he's going to wear them after he's showered. “Whatever, Sammy,” Dean laughs and they finish breakfast being fondly unpleasant towards one another. Sam cracks up and almost chokes on his pancakes when Dean makes a half-assed impression of Don Corleone dying with one of the orange slices, and he ends up knocking over his cup of coffee, effectively spilling on his new jeans but not the tablecloth. Dean can't stop laughing for a good while after that.

• • •

Dean doesn't look at the caller ID when he picks up the phone, which he comes to regret immediately after hearing the voice on the other end of the line. “Hello, Dean.”

“Cas.”

“Merry Christmas. Am I interrupting?”

This is the first break Dean's had since ten o'clock; he'd put the ham in the oven, started cooking the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole and wasn't really done when people started coming over after noon; Ellen and Jo had been the first ones to arrive, thank fuck, and had ushered him out of the kitchen so he could shower while they'd start the sauce. He was currently toweling his hair dry with one hand while holding up his phone with the other. “Yes, I'm kinda in the middle of something here,” he lied smoothly and threw the towel into the hamper. “So if there's nothing urgent, I have to get back to the kitchen.”

He's being rude and he knows he is, quite aware of the fact, but he doesn't want to think about Castiel today of all days. Today is _Christmas_ , for Christ's sake, and that is _sacred._ This is his and Sammy's time, time for family, and therefore not a time for beautiful neighbors with amazing mouths and unworthy boyfriends.

“I just wanted to talk,” is what Castiel replies, and Dean is so, so close to asking _why, why do you wanna talk to me, what are you gonna tell me this time,_ but stops himself. “I'm sorry I interrupted you.”

“Merry Christmas,” Dean forces out, and listens to the silence on the other end for another excruciating moment before Castiel hangs up. He pockets his phone with a sigh, shakes his head and walks back to the living room to help Sam set the table.

• • •

Ash is last to arrive, obviously, and they start eating as soon as he's inside the door. The green beans got slightly burnt, for which Dean furiously blames himself, but Ellen smacks him upside the head and Sam laughs at them. The apple pie is frickin' awesome and Dean has one too many slices, so he ends up on the couch with Sam while Bobby and Chuck clean up the kitchen. Jo and Pam are talking excitedly about Pam and Chuck's plans to buy a house while Ellen and Ash are fighting over what to put on the stereo. It's nice, and domestic, and Dean sighs because why can't it just be like this, always just like _this_ , blissed out from eating too much with his feet on Sam's lap and surrounded by family. He doesn't ask for much, at least he doesn't think so. He just wants some piece of mind every once in a while.

“Dean,” Jo calls as she stands up and he lifts his head to stare back at her. “Get up, it's our turn in the kitchen.”

Dean grumps and reluctantly stands up, rolls his shoulders and follows her into the kitchen. “Thanks for the help, guys,” Dean says and nudges Chuck away from the sink while taking the brush from his hand. “We're here to relieve you.”

“Thank the Lord,” Bobby grumps and unties his apron. “Make some coffee when you're finished, yeah?”

“Sure, Bobby,” Jo laughs and puts on his apron. “Just don't let my mom put on Bon Jovi.”

“You got yourself a deal, kiddo,” he says, leaving with Chuck on his heels, and Dean shakes his head and hands Jo a stack of wet plates. He looks out the window and sees Castiel and Balthazar lying tangled on the couch, watching television. That had been Dean a week ago, and that memory makes Dean look away quickly.

Jo must've seen something change in Dean's behavior, because she takes a step to be able to see out the window and sighs when she sees the same as Dean had.

“It must suck to have a direct view into his personal life like that,” she muses and picks up one of the plate and dries it with a dishtowel. “At least now you know.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, wishing terribly that this whole conversation could just _stop_ , that Jo would leave it at that and he could continue floating on top of things. “Would you leave me and my shit alone if you had a boyfriend of your own?” He jokes and passes her another plate.

She blushes a bit and shakes her head. “Evidently not,” she says and stacks a plate only to find Dean glaring at her when she looks back at him. “What?”

“So, who's the guy?” He crosses his arms, leans against the countertop.

“Benny. He bartends at the Roadhouse sometimes,” she smiles, and she looks so genuinely happy that he honestly hopes that it'll work out for her. Like himself, Jo doesn't have the best track record with men.

Dean picks up a plate and resumes cleaning the dishes. “Is he good to you?”

She laughs a little and nods. “Yeah, he is.”

“Good,” he nods, mostly to himself, and smiles at Jo. He wants to ask her how old Benny is but stops himself; it would end badly or just not as well as it just had if he leaves it as that, and so he does, not because he doesn't want to know, but maybe because he already kind of does. Jo's daddy issues matches Dean's to a T, which is kind of what makes their friendship possibly where a relationship hadn't been. “I'ma kick his ass if he ain't.”

“Sure, Dean,” she snorts and shakes her head, curls bouncing around, and for a moment Dean sees the girl he'd first met all those years ago and falls in love with her again just in that fleeting second. He hopes Benny is in fact good to her because he'll never be good enough for her.

• • •

Dean Winchester is still tired, and he's tired of everything. He is tired because he doesn't sleep, he is tired because he works two jobs, he's tired of being a single parent at 24 and having been so for the last ten years (hell, fifteen years maybe, depending on how you look at things), and he's tired because there's not much else to be when your life is living hell and you know it's probably going to be a lot worse if you don't carry on.

So that's what he does.

 


	7. Ready to snap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bitch.

 7

Dean Winchester is ready to snap.

He hadn't gotten around to opening his mailbox before he came back from driving Sammy to Joel's late in the afternoon some days after Christmas was over and done with, and had done so to find a few commercials, the local newspaper, a letter regarding some renovation construction work on the road and a personal letter from a Mr. Crowley.

Who the fuck is Mr. Crowley? Dean has no. Fucking. Clue.

He opens it when he's back inside with a cup of coffee and finds a computer-typed letter starting _Mr. Winchester_ , and when had he ever gotten old enough to be addressed as “Mr.” anything?

_I understand you function as Sam's legal guardian, which is why I'm directing this letter to you. Normally I would have consulted a student's parents about these matters, but the school informed me that your father is unreachable._

_I'm sorry to inform you that Sam hasn't been to homeroom for the past two weeks, and that I – despite my best efforts – have so forth been unable to convince him to attend. I'm entrusting you to inform your younger brother of the meaning of the word “mandatory attendance”, or I'll be forced to report him to the principal, which will – if he does not start showing up at my classroom every morning at 8 am – lead to his expulsion from East High._

It's signed _Professor Crowley,_ and Dean supposes Sam ought to figure himself pretty fucking lucky he isn't home right now because this takes the fucking cake. He can't blame his stupid kid brother for skipping school; Dean barely remembers his junior year of high school, and he refuses to become a hypocrite, but Sam's better than any of Dean's problems. A part of him thinks he should cut Sam some slack, because these last months haven't exactly been easy for either of them, but Sam should find a way to rise above all the fucked-up shit that's happening, not cave in to it all.

Dean had actually believed things were going well for Sam, all things considered. He had a girlfriend, for christ's sake, and a pretty fucking hot one at that. However, Dean figures, there's not much to do about it right now: Sam's not home and no fucking way is he driving all across town to get him back just so he can yell at him. It might be good for both of them not to see each other right now, because Dean isn't calm, and he's not entirely sure this wouldn't end in a shit storm of a fight if he were to have the argument with Sam right then and there, because he's – he's fucking hurt, is what he is, he'd actually believed Sam would never hurt him, not Sam, not Sam of all people, especially not after what had happened with Castiel, and _god, Dean, don't think about Castiel._

The doorbell rings and in walks Bobby, shaking the snow from his shoulders and pulling off his jacket. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey,” he says absentmindedly, still clutching the letter in his fist.

“What's up?”

“I just got this,” Dean shakes his head and hands Bobby the letter. “Apparently, Sam's been cutting classes.”

“So?” Bobby shrugs and skims through the letter. “He's a teenager, Dean. How many times have I caught you around town when you should've been in school?”

Dean shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. “That's not-”

“It's exactly the same, Dean,” Bobby scolds and goes into the kitchen with the grocery bag he'd arrived with. “Now, let's get this chili started. I'm starving.”

He forces Dean to cut the onions, which Dean hates because they make him cry, and Bobby snorts, “What, afraid you're gonna ruin your make-up, princess?”, and it's all right after that, at least for now – Bobby makes fun of him and they talk about seeing everyone a few days ago and what their plans are for New Year's.

“Well, Sam's invited to a party, so I guess I'm staying at home in case he needs a ride or something,” Dean shrugs and dices the bacon. “Don't know if I'm gonna let him go, though.”

“Don't you just think he's acting out because everything's been so bad lately? Maybe if he has some fun he'll get his mind off it all.” It would've been easier for Dean to take Bobby seriously and actually pay attention to what he was saying if he wasn't wearing that ugly apron he always wears when he cooks.

Instead of contradicting him about Sam, Dean asks, “Did you bring that apron with you from home?”

“'Course I did, boy. Ain't gonna spill all over my new shirt.”

“Well, what-” Dean begins but the doorbell rings and he huffs, wipes his hands on his jeans as he walks out to answer it.

Castiel's standing outside. Wonderful.

“Hello, Dean,” he says solemnly and hands him a small package. “I found this in a box in my basement and it made me think of you. Merry Christmas.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dean mutters, instantly both flustered and dumbfounded, and finds himself returning the warm smile Castiel is offering him. “Where's Balthazar?”

“He left yesterday,” he answers, and there's no emotion in his voice, no sign for Dean to know if Castiel found any answers to what their relationship actually was. “Can I come in?”

Honestly, Dean's torn. He's missed talking to him and it would nice if they could be if not friends, then at least friendly towards each other, but a part of him insists that he should still be mad at Castiel. Bobby yells for him to shut the door unless he wants to catch a cold, which eventually makes up Dean's mind and he nods at Castiel.

“Yeah, come on in.”

He opens the door and lets him in, watches him slowly unlace and then step out of his shoes, both of them silent. Dean leads him into the kitchen where Bobby is trying to turn on the oven.

“Bobby, you know Cas,” he shrugs and pushes the older man away from the oven so he can turn it on properly.

“Good to see you again,” Bobby nods and puts a loaf of bread into the oven. “Now get outta my kitchen while I'm cooking.”

“It's my kitchen,” Dean grumps but follows Castiel out into the living room where they settle on either side of the table. “Uh, do you want something to drink?”

“Perhaps later. Open your present,” he counters, and there's not much Dean can say to that.

The gift is wrapped in shiny moss green paper and tied with a small golden bow; when Dean tugs on one of the strands the ribbon loosens completely and the paper falls open. Inside is an old book titled _“The Ethical Demand”._ Dean is instantly confused.

“I don't know how much philosophy you've read besides the butchered ancient Greeks like Plato that we've all suffered through in high school,” Castiel begins and Dean's gaze is stuck somewhere between Castiel's hands folded on the table in front of him and the book in his own, “but this is a quite interesting take on ethics.”

“Why did it make you think of me?” He looks up at Castiel who's smiling at Dean like... like he's in love with him and it's absolutely the most awful he's felt all week.

“Logstrup postulates that there's something inherently good in mankind which makes you act ethically correct for purely selfless reasons in order to help the people around you. He's a theologist, so it's the whole _love thy neighbour_ thing.”

Dean thinks about the afternoon that had started this whole thing, except it hadn't, not really; sometimes, like now, it feels like Dean was destined to be screwed over by the man sitting in front of him. He cracks a bitter smile and huffs out a laugh. “I see.”

“Dean, I-” he begins, but doesn't continue, instead lets the unspoken linger between them, and Dean knows right then and there that he should abandon all hope.

“How about that beer?” He opts for instead and stands up before he gets an answer. He closes the door behind him after he's gone to the kitchen and leans against it with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and curling his hands.

“What's wrong?” Bobby asks, and Dean had totally forgotten about him. He opens his eyes and sees him staring at him, and he forces his hands to unfist and pushes himself off the door. “I thought you and Cas-”

“Castiel has a boyfriend. Do you remember the British guy who came into the shop just before Christmas?” He asks and everything clicks in Bobby's head, Dean can tell by the way his lips part and his eyes squint as he pieces together all the info.

Dean opens the fridge and pulls out three beers, hands one to Bobby and opens one for himself with a sigh. “Castiel lies. Sam lies. Who am I to trust, huh?”

“I'm not going to fight with you, kid,” Bobby shakes his head and takes a long swallow from the bottle.

“Bobby, I just-” Dean shrugs and fiddles with the label on his bottle. “I've let him down, is all. He's my responsibility and I hadn't even noticed how he's...”

“How could you? You've had your own problems to deal with, no one's blaming you. We all missed the signs.”

“Yeah, but you're not family, Bobby. I know you and Ellen and Ash all took part in raising Sam, but he's always been _my_ responsibility, _my_ brother,” Dean sighs and shakes his head, rubs at the back of his neck. “Don't say I've done everything I could for him, because I haven't.”

“Family don't end with blood,” Bobby says quietly and claps him on the back. “You didn't fuck up, John did.”

Dean had calmed a bit down but feels his anger flare up again. “I should've stepped up and done the right thing,” He bits back, gesturing with his bottle. “Don't talk about him like that, okay? Dad did his best for me and Sam and nothing can ever change that.”

Bobby takes a few deep breaths and puts his hands on his hips. “I told you before and I'm telling you again. We're not having this fight. Now you are going back in there to entertain your guest while I'll finish dinner.”

”No, no, you're not going to just _dismiss_ me like that in my own house,” Dean says in a raised voice, and he wants to punch something, hard, feels the prickles in his fingers and knuckles.

”Maybe not, but I'm not gonna tell you that your daddy was the best in the world, because he wasn't.”

”He tried, all right? Damnit, Bobby,” Dean sighs, shaking his head, and he really wants to be angry, but now he mostly feels tired, weighed down with confrontation of truth and lies. He's just about to continue when he hears someone shift behind him and he turns to face Castiel, and when had he come in, anyway?

”I got thirsty,” he replies to the question Dean hadn't asked yet, and somehow Dean believes him, hands him the third beer from the counter and clinks it with his own.

”Cheers,” he says and then he downs the rest. 


	8. Hoarse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's getting better at updating! Hint: it's me.

Dean Winchester is hoarse. He's been yelling for an hour at Sam who's sitting there, inanimate, staring straight ahead, and Dean doesn't really want to keep shouting abuse at him, but the fact that he's just... _sitting_ there, like Sam could honestly care less about whatever in hell Dean could say to him... It only adds fuel to the fire.

”Talk to me, Goddamnit, Sam, don't just sit there!”

”Well, what do you want me to say?” he finally speaks, looks up and almost laughs, shrugs his shoulders. ”I don't do this shit to disappoint you, Dean. I'm just-” he laughs again and looks down. ”Fine. I'll start going to homeroom. Are you gonna let me eat dinner now?”

Dean's eyes dart to the now cold pot of stew resting on the dinner table and draws in a breath, counts to ten and tries not to let his anger show. ”Yeah, eat all you want, you frickin' moose.”

He forces himself to laugh and Sam does, too, and it's all right for now; he's done all he can, he tells himself, but he fervently wishes that Sam would care about school. He only has half a year left of High School, anyway; forget about college, Dean's never going to be able to afford that, and if Sam keeps this up he won't get a full ride, but worst of all – which is what Dean fears – is that Sam won't even get his GED, which at least Dean had managed to do.

”Hey, can I go tomorrow? To that party?” Sam asks with a mouth full of mushy vegetables.

It's probably the fact that Sam asks again – that he doesn't take Dean's permission for granted – that makes Dean agree. ”No drinking, or I swear to God I'll kick your ass so far into the next year you'll miss your own graduation.”

Sam laughs again, ”Thanks Dean. Do you have any plans?”

_'Marathoning Star Wars and crying myself to sleep,'_ is the first thing that springs to Dean's mind and he mulls it over before answering. ”If you're out and about I'll have to stand guard by the phone, Sammy. It's tough being a single mom,” he follows the last bit up with a fake sob and Sam laughs again, and Dean wonders how come Sam's acting out in school when he's so happy around him. Shouldn't it be the other way round since Dean's the one who's causing all the trouble? He has no clue. But when Sam offers to do the dishes if Dean finds them a movie to watch, Dean can't really find it in him to complain.

• • •

Dean doesn't sleep at all on the night into the new year; stays up sipping on the same bottle of beer and rereading the same page of an old Kerouac book for close to an hour before he gives up. In the kitchen he makes a cup of coffee and stares into Castiel's empty living room for many long minutes before the light flicks on and Castiel stumbles in; Dean checks his watch and it's almost midnight, so he must've been out to celebrate for some part of the evening.

Castiel loosens his tie and plumps down into the couch, rests his head in his hands and, because of the distance, Dean can't really tell if he's drunk or tired. No matter what, he's not where he was before, and why is that, why didn't he stay, why'd he go home so early?

Castiel finds his phone and begins texting, it seems, and slowly but steadily Dean begins to feel like a creep for, well, creeping on his neighbor, even if they're sort of friends. Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and goes into his living room to drink it; when he goes back to the kitchen for another cup, Castiel is still sitting on his couch, phone in hand.

Dean thinks about calling him and decides to do just that; maybe he's too tired to think rationally, or maybe he's just at the point where he's too tired to care about appearances or who should be calling who. Castiel fucked up, but Dean still wants to talk to him. That's kind of fucked up, too.

Castiel picks up immediately. “Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” he says, and it's almost a sigh, fuck it, a fucking benediction, but he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed by it.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, and there's only a slight slurring to his voice. For an alcoholic, Dean is incredibly happy when other people are reasonably sober.

“Not really. I'm mostly bored.”

Castiel laughs at that. “So am I. The party I was at earlier was not very fulfilling. Are you home?”

“Yeah, Sam's out, so...”

“You're staying home in case he needs you,” Castiel concludes solemnly and Dean can see him nodding through the window. “You're a good brother, Dean.”

He sounds so fucking earnest that Dean has to change the subject, right now. “I'm looking at you. Through my kitchen window. It goes right into your living room.”

“Oh, I know,” he replies but doesn't move to look back at him. “It's a little bit creepy.” He says it with enough affection in his voice that Dean actually feels happy about telling him, and he laughs a bit over it. Maybe Castiel is a bit more inebriated than Dean had initially thought.

“Do you wanna come over?” Dean asks before he can help himself.

There's silence on the other end for a few moments before Dean hears Castiel drawing in a breath. “I don't think that would be very wise. I'm going to go to bed now. Alone. Over here. Happy New Year's.”

“Happy New Year's,” Dean says, distracted, hearing the other end of the line click as Castiel hangs up. _Huh._ Castiel doesn't want to come over because he doesn't trust himself around Dean. That's one way of interpreting what the hell just happened.

The other way would be to say that Castiel was drunk and had no idea what he was saying, possibly referring to his state of intoxication even though he's nowhere near a level that high, Dean can tell from the way Castiel is gently easing himself up from the couch and twisting his tie in his hands.

Dean doesn't know what the hell he should make of this, he's too tired, his mind too muddled up to make sense of things. He needs to sleep on it, but he knows he won't be able to, so he pours himself another cup of coffee and stares at Castiel – who doesn't look in Dean's direction – until he turns off the light in his living room and goes to bed.

Dean eventually finds something to do – Sam had mentioned that there was something wrong with the ghetto blaster (and really, Dean is a bit embarrassed that he, as a music lover, can't afford a decent stereo), so the least he can do is try and fix it. He finds his tool box and picks it apart until he finds the fault; it takes a few hours before he's fixed it, but it turned out to be fun in a subdued way.

He looks at the time and it's just past two o'clock, texts Sam to hear how everything's going, but half an hour later he still hasn't heard from it. He tries calling but it goes straight to voice-mail, and really, Sam would know better than to turn off his phone when he's out.

Dean can feel the panic crawling up the back of his skull as he stares at his phone, _no new messages_ staring blankly at him, and the clock on the wall ticking away, marking each new second Sam isn't answering. He calls him again and is once more redirected to voice mail where he leaves a stern message telling him to call him back _now_. Time goes slower and slower until it feels like it gets stuck between every tick of the tock, and so Dean gets up, throws on his leather jacket and drives into town in his car.

He stops by Josh' first because that's where the party's at, and he hates to be the jackass who comes by and ruins everyone's evening (and embarrassing his little brother), but he's supposed to keep Sam safe, and shit, nothing feels safe right now.

People are dancing drunkenly around to loud, crappy music and Dean doesn't understand why people do this sort of thing, can't see the appeal when he himself had been bereft of anything resembling normal teen years, but he finds Jessica, sitting on a deck chair in the kitchen talking with her friends. They look tired, but not drunk, thank God.

“Have you seen Sam?” he asks, doesn't introduce himself because he figures she recognizes him, and she does, but she shakes her head and takes a drink from a red plastic cup.

“No, he disappeared around... midnight, was it?” One of her friends reply, looking at Jessica for confirmation, and Dean recognizes the look on her face as being extremely hurt but trying to hide it behind anger. It's a wonder it took him so long to realise it; he's probably been wearing the same expression for weeks now.

“No, it was earlier,” some dude replies, drinking water from the tab. “He left with that new girl.”

Dean sighs and rubs a hand in his face, realising that Sam is taking over all Dean's worst qualities. “Great. That's just great. Do you know where they went?”

“Sorry,” Jessica's friend says again and gives Dean a once-over. “Wish I could do more for you.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head, forces himself to smile. “Yeah, no, that's not gonna happen, kid.”

He turns and walks outside where, in the silence, he can hear his phone ring. “Sam?”

“Yeah, hey, Dean, what's up?”

The actual relief of hearing Sam's voice is enough to quell Dean's anger at him for now. “What's up? Where are you? I'm coming to get you.”

“I'm... home. Where are you?”

He sighs and shakes his head, fishes the car key out of his pocket and opens the door to the Impala. “On my way back from Josh's. How'd you get back?”

“I got a ride from a friend,” Sam explains and Dean can hear the rustling of clothes in the background. “Listen, I'm really beat, so I'm gonna go to bed now.”

“I'll be back in less than ten, Sam,” Dean replies sternly. “Wait up for me, all right. I wanna talk to you.”

“Mhm, sure,” he agrees and hangs up.

When Dean gets back, Sam's asleep and doesn't smell at all like alcohol, so he decides to let his little brother sleep. Besides being late, he hadn't really done anything wrong, and Dean's tired of yelling. It's four o'clock now and Dean sighs, shakes his head and goes to bed. He feels wide awake the second he closes his eyes and settles down under the duvet, and he spends more than an hour lying on his back, staring into thin air. The relief that Sam had been okay had apparently not relaxed him enough to make him sleepy.

He gets up to find the book he'd started earlier but remembers the book Castiel had given him some days ago and picks that up instead; settles into bed with it in hopes that, if it doesn't interest him, it'll at least lull him to sleep.

It starts out with a bit of a struggle on Dean's part, not to stay awake, sadly, but to keep his concentration on the text and not on what Castiel might've thought when he said _it made me think of you._ Not before long it picks up, and the first time he checks his watch to see how long he's been reading it's almost seven. He's been reading for more than two hours and with not many pages to show for it.

Dean continues to read until Sam scuttling around in the kitchen brings his mind back to the present; by then it's almost ten and Dean's head is pounding with exhaustion. He takes a piss before joining Sam in the kitchen who looks no fresher than Dean.

“Dude, why don't we have any bacon?” Sam complains and shuts the refrigerator door. “I really wanted some bacon.”

“Probably because someone ate the rest and forgot to add it to the grocery list,” Dean retorts and pours out the stale coffee from the pot in order to brew some more.

Sam sighs and opens the fridge again. Dean huffs, “It's not like it's gonna look any different from before just because you're looking again.”

“Stop ruining my life,” Sam groans takes out the milk and eggs, “and make me pancakes.”

“Why should I make you pancakes, huh? If anything, you should make me some, bitch.”

“Someone's feeling grumpy today,” Sam remarks and pours some flour in a bowl.

Dean shakes his head and pours himself a cup of coffee. “Try _churlish_ or _fractious_ , dude. _Tetchy_ , even. Expand your vocabulary, you know.” He takes a sip and sighs, slumps his shoulders. “I haven't slept all night.”

Sam grabs his cup from his hands and puts it down on the counter, gently laughing. “Coffee isn't going to help you. What have you been doing?”

“Worrying about you, mostly,” Dean replies, because he's gotta have this talk with Sam sooner or later. “I don't care what you do as long as it's not illegal, but I'm not gonna keep letting you go out half the night if I can't even reach you! What if there was an emergency?”

“Dean, whoa, slow down, my phone ran out of power,” Sam almost slurs his words because he's trying to get them out so fast. “The second I realised that I went home and noticed you were gone, so I plugged it in and dialed you.”

Dean is sure he doesn't look convinced because Sam continues, “You know I don't drink, and I was with a friend, she wasn't drinking either, and we just drove around for a while around town, looking at the fireworks down by the river. I swear, I didn't do anything wrong, I know I've fucked up-”

“Hey, mind your fucking language.”

Sam laughs, instantly eased by the playful scolding. “So, we good?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean nods and grabs him by his shoulder. “We're good.”

• • •

“The individual never deals with another human being without holding a part of that person's life in his hand. It can be a small part, a passing mood, an avidity you force into withering, or one that you inspire, a disgust you amplify or condense. But it can also be such a tremendous amount that it is simply up to the individual whether the other person's life succeeds or not.” - **K. E. Løgstrup**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't skip the quote.


	9. Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank my beta [Lauren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysfallenangel) enough for what help she's been with this.

 

Dean Winchester is confused. About a lot of things, actually, but right now he's most confused as to why there's a massive hairball clogging up the shower drain. Sam might be a giant but he's not a damn wookie, and really, when did it become Dean's job to do all the damn chores in the house? He would unload some on Sam if it wasn't for the fact he's afraid it'd reflect poorly on his schoolwork, and so Dean continues to unclog the drain and scour the tiles. He can't remember the last time he properly cleaned the bathroom, which, yes, is really fucking gross, thank you for pointing it out, but he's been busy with _stuff_ , and really, he's a 24-year old dude, how many 24-year olds keep house? 

Not many, that's for sure. And those who do probably do it for a husband or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or someone, not their smelly wookie little brother who snores and eats all the raisin bran without putting more on the list. 

As he finishes plunging the toilet Dean realises he should probably get a move on if he wants to stop by the store to get groceries before picking up Sam from school; if he really hurries he might have time to do some laundry before his late shift at the Roadhouse, too. 

God, it's only been a week since New Year’s, but already he misses Christmas vacation. 

• • •

Sam's not waiting outside the school when Dean shows up, and yeah, maybe he's a bit late, but he's here now, and Sam's... not. Sam is not here. Dean is here., but Sam is not. Dean realises his sleep-deprivation isn't making this any easier, but he's really confused now, and where the _fuck_ is Sam? Was he really going to pull this sort of crap after what happened at New Year's?

Angrily flipping open his cell and preparing himself for a heated conversation with his younger brother, Dean notices a text message received half an hour ago; _“I'm getting a ride from a friend. See you at home,”_ and he realises, after he's calmed down, that, judging by how often he gets mad for no reason, he really needs to wind down a bit. 

• • •

It's painfully slow at the Roadhouse this night even though it's a Friday, so Dean takes to first drinking one beer, then another. He's getting a nice buzz going on when he sees a familiar trench-coat-clad figure coming in through the doors and settling down at a far end of the bar. Smirking, Dean throws a towel over his shoulder and walks over to him. “Hey, Cas.” 

He looks up, blue eyes scanning his face and for a few moments Castiel looks as confused as Dean's felt all day. “So this is the bar you work at?”

Dean can't remember telling him about working two jobs. “Yeah, apparently. So what brings you here?” 

“Gin, hopefully,” he shrugs and Dean nods, turning around to grab the bottle of Gordon's at the bar. 

“Tonic?” Dean asks and cranes his neck around to see Castiel staring right back at him. 

“Yes, if you have it,” Castiel sighs and shrugs out of his coat. He's wearing dress pants and a white button-down, but no tie, Dean notices. 

“Rough day at the office?” Dean asks as he places the drink in front of Castiel, and they both share a look and a snigger at the cliché of the scene. “Classes don't start until Monday, right?” 

That is correct,” Castiel confirms between big gulps of the drink. “You certainly didn't hold back with the gin.” 

“I've been wondering how you'd be drunk,” Dean shrugs, eyes staring at Castiel's without blinking, and maybe he shouldn't have had those few beers during his shift. Castiel looks down at his drink, blinking, blushing, his index finger running circles in the condensation collecting on the outside of the cool glass, and Dean is taken aback at how sheepish Castiel seems; a deer caught in the headlights. 

“I apologize for what happened at New Year's,” Castiel starts and Dean barely sees Jo approaching before she's standing next to him. 

“What happened at New Year's?” she asks, looking from Dean to Castiel, hands on her hips. 

“Nothing,” Dean answers quickly and shakes his head. “Jo Harvelle, this is Castiel-” 

“My quantum physics professor,” Jo smiles and shakes his hand. “Yeah, you live next to Dean, right?” 

Castiel pauses and looks dubiously at Dean before answering, “Yes, we're neighbors. You're in my class?” 

“Yeah, I switched majors at the last minute,” she laughs. “Well, I gotta go check on the other patrons, but I trust Dean'll look after you,” and the way she looks at Dean is a dead give-away, Dean knows; there's no fucking way Castiel won't notice it. But his facial expression doesn't change and Dean considers himself lucky. 

Jo saunters away and Castiel empties the rest of his drink. Dean makes him another before he asks for it, but it's not long before he's drunk that one, too, while they've been talking about stuff – work, school, Sam, anything but themselves and this thing dwelling between them. Dean's on his fourth beer by now, and there aren't more patrons coming in by the looks of it, which makes him prompt the question, “Do you know how to shoot pool?”

“No,” Castiel replies, and it's so little a surprise that Dean has to huff at himself for even thinking there was a question involved somewhere in that. “I'm guessing you want to help me rectify another situation of cultural neglect?” 

“Someone has to,” Dean shrugs and leads the way to one of the pool tables at the other end of the Roadhouse. 

Castiel looks vaguely alarmed when Dean smirks at him, “Promise me you're not just hustling?”

His cheeks are burning and after a moment he replies, “I'm not exactly sure I understand the use of that word in this context.” 

“Cheating, Cas. Hustling is when you pretend to suck but you're actually,” and now really isn't a good time to be thinking about Castiel sucking things, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Dean, get your head out of your gutter, “really good at it.” 

“I promise you, Dean, I really do... suck,” he replies, awkward around the final word, but he smiles at Dean and picks up a cue stick. “So how am I supposed to hold this?” 

They're not far into the game when Dean can tell that Castiel really, honestly, painfully does suck at everything, and he takes it upon himself to teach him how to shoot. He leans over Castiel to help him aim, arms aligned and he's practically hugging him from behind, and while it's really, really nice, he's also terrified of getting hard against Castiel's backside. 

That wouldn't really work to his advantage, he's sure. 

Of course, it doesn't help when Jo saunters over and stops to remark, “You've really got a good grip on Cas' cue stick there, Dean. Making sure he pockets the right balls?” 

Dean, miraculously, manages to pocket the one of Castiel's balls he'd intended to, before turning around and glaring at Jo. “Hey, I can't be blamed for helping out those less fortunate, right? We can't all be born with one hand wrapped around a stick and the other around a pair of balls.” 

Jo laughs at the jibe and picks up their empty glasses, shakes her head as she walks away. “Sure, Dean-o. I'll get you two a refill.” 

“What's the time?” Castiel asks. 

“It's-- almost midnight,” he replies, surprised, and looks up from his watch to meet Castiel's glare. “I'm off soon, and I should probably get back to Sam...” 

“Could I get a ride back? I'm not sure I'm fit to drive.”

“Sure,” Dean shrugs and begins walking over to the bar. “I'll just tell Jo we're leaving.” 

He manages to catch her before she fixed their drinks, and when he tells her they're leaving together she cocks an eyebrow, “Getting him drunk and bending him over the pool table wasn't enough?”

“He's not single,” Dean says as a reply, refusing to meet her gaze and instead looks at Castiel who is tidying up the pool table, seemingly focused by the simple task. 

“Ha! Like that's ever stopped you,” she huffs and shakes her head. “Don't do anything I'd do.” 

“Which reminds me. How's Benny?” Dean smirks, turning to leer at her and getting smacked on the arm with a wet towel. “All right, all right. Have a nice night, Jo.” 

Dean pulls on his leather jacket, picks up Castiel's trench coat and throws it at him when they meet at the door. Outside it's not as cold as Dean would've guessed, but he puts on the heat when they get inside the Impala and he doesn't bother turning on the radio; it's pleasant with a bit of quiet after the noise of the bar. Castiel thinks the same, it seems, because he doesn't say anything, either. It's nice, just driving around, and when they pull up in front of their houses Dean kills the engine and turns to look at Castiel, “D'you wanna come in for a beer?” 

“Yes.” He says it simply without pause. “Although I quite like this weather.” 

Dean looks out the car window and sees it's begun to rain. “The porch it is then.” 

They run from the car up to his house and Dean hurries inside to grab a couple of beers from the fridge; when he comes back outside, Castiel is sitting on the stairs and staring off into the blank space. The lampposts illuminates the sidewalk every fifteen feet or so, uneven concrete gathering pools of rain in the night, and there's something so tragically beautiful about this scene and Castiel admiring it that Dean feels breathless. It's like the world stands still and he's having a perfect moment of clarity and he can see why everything is worth it; all the struggling and uncertainty and fits of sleeplessness for these times when he's so conscious of life that it all seems too much for him. 

He sits down nexts to Castiel, their thighs brushing and shoulders bumping into each other when they lift their arms to sip their beer. One beer goes down in silence and Dean goes back inside to fetch some more; it's past one o'clock when Dean, on his third beer, picking at his label, takes a long pull of it and says, “I really wanna kiss you.” 

The air between them as they sit there, almost drunk on the beer and sleep-deprivation, thickens with the knowledge that there could be _more_ than this.

Castiel lifts his bottle to his lips, letting the edge rest on his bottom lip as he sighs, “Yes, Dean, I know.”

Dean is so hopelessly clueless as to what to do from there; it strikes him odd, or funny at least, how he feels that they've never really kissed enough compared to what he would've preferred, but still enough for Dean to know and later miss the shape and feel of Castiel's lips against his. It's a horrible thing inbetween, and so he doesn't say anything back, just lets the knowledge of his desire dwell between them as they finish their beer. 

 


	10. Mad & Lovesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back. It's been a while, I know, and I can't even begin to apologize. I've already written the next couple of chapters so I'm hoping this time around I'll get around to finishing it.

 

Dean Winchester is sporadically mad and lovesick, which could be considered reasonanly acceptable in a modern society if he were a sixteen-year-old hormone-addled virgin.

Needless to say, he's not.

He figures he should add _masochist_ to the growing list of characteristics he's found and faced in himself; overcome, not quite yet. Despite this, he's still adament on trying to work out how a friendship with someone like Castiel works. To Dean, friendship has always been sharing a beer now and again, maybe helping out with some work around the house and watching the game together.

Friendship doesn't include carpooling with other friends' family. Or maybe it does, Dean isn't sure. But since Castiel had offered to take Sam to school one morning and Dean had agreed because he was late and the auto shop actually was on the other end of town, and since that one time progressed into the following day, and then the rest of the week, and then dropping him off again at home after school, it feels a lot like Castiel is co-parenting. And that is maddening. And also quite attractive.

Anyway, Sam is carpooling with Castiel, and Dean wants to thank Castiel because it frees up more time for him to do all the stuff he usually doesn't have much time for. However, Dean also feels guilty that he was so quick to give up some quality time with Sam, but Sam doesn't seem to mind, at least not yet, so Dean'll take that for now. He's planning on thanking Castiel sooner or later, though, but he has no idea how. When he asks Jo for advice at work, she just shakes her head and sighs.

”Why do you let him?”

Dean narrows his eyes, crosses his arms. ”Let him... what, exactly?”

She shrugs and wipes the table. ”Act like he's your boyfriend when he's not?”

”Hey, he's driving Sam to school, that can't be for his sake,” at least Dean _really_ hopes not.

She sighs again and stables the clean glasses on the counter. ”He led you on repeatedly while he was in a relationship, Dean. You should cut him loose.”

”Cas has been the only good thing for me this past month,” Dean admits with a deep exhale, running a hand through his hair, but stops himself before he says more. ”It's not your business, and I don't wanna talk about it.”

”Then don't ask me about it,” she huffs with a shrug and walks out the back. While Dean collects used glasses from around the bar the front door jingles open and a tall man walks in. Jo comes out from the back room and greets the man with a hug and a kiss, and Dean figures this must be Benny. Huh.

He's older than Dean had expected, but he looks decent, and if Jo's smile is anything to go by, he's good to her, and that's all that really matters.

”Dean, this is Benny, he bartends here sometimes, too,” she introduces them and Dean shakes his hand, smiles politely.

”The infamous Dean Winchester,” Benny comments and leans against the counter. ”They like you a lot around here.”

”What can I say, I'm awesome,” Dean grins and looks from Jo to Benny. ”Are you working here tonight?”

”Sure looks like it,” Benny nods and shrugs off his jacket. ”Jo here called me to fill in for her.”

”I'm going to a birthday party, last minute thing,” she explains, too quickly, and Dean grows a bit paranoid at the tone of her voice and her evasive eyes, like she's just doing this to get away from him.

”Awesome, gives me plenty of chances to tell Benny here about growing up with you,” Dean grins, hoping joking will serve as an apology for earlier. ”Did you know that Jo used to dress up as-”

”Dean!” Jo shrieks and punches him in the arm, at which he laughs. ”I'm gonna tell mom about your deal with the hot professor if you don't stop.”

Dean blanches at that, not entirely sure what she would in fact tell Ellen, but sure he wouldn't like it no matter what it was. ”Gotcha.”

• • •

Dean and Benny turn out to have fun, after they get over a chauvinistic rivalry of who can carry more boxes of liquor at one time and Dean's grilled him about his intentions and made sure he's good enough for Jo. When they close down, Dean's having such a good time he barely wants to go home, and he claps Benny on the shoulder and says, ”hey, man, you're all right,” and maybe it's because he's tired that he'd do something like that, but Benny nods, claps him on the back too, and smiles, ”You want what's best for Jo. I respect that, my friend.”

In the car driving back home Dean thinks that things might actually turn out to be all right, after all. It's been such a profoundly good and easy night that Dean actually fucking whistles on his way up his front porch.

Inside, on the kitchen counter, there's a note from Sam, _Staying at a friend's tonight, couldn't find phone, sorry_ , and a phone number scrawled at the bottom of the page. While it's not ideal, Dean wishing Sam had learnt from last time, it's still better than just disappearing, and at one in the morning there's not much he can do about it. At least it's not a school night, he thinks, and when he looks up from the note and out the window he can see Castiel sitting on his couch, staring back. And that's... not creepy at all, no.

He whips out his phone and quickly texts ”ur a fuckin creep ok”, not caring about proper grammar or anything, because, well, it's _one in the morning_ and _Castiel is staring at him across their gardens_.

Castiel doesn't seem to notice the text because he doesn't move for a few minutes. Dean starts waving his arms frantically in the air and he can see Castiel snapping out of it, shaking his head. He picks up his phone and Dean's phone rings seconds later.

”You look like an ass.”

”You were staring, didn't your mom ever tell you that's rude?” Dean smirks back and leans against the counter. ”What're you still doing up?”

”Can't sleep,” he sighs and fuck, Dean can sympathise with that. There's silence after his admission. Dean knows more than anyone what insomnia does to an already muddled mind.

”Do you think it's weird that you drive Sam to school?” Dean asks after he's been staring so long at Castiel he's forgotten what he'd actually gone out to the kitchen to do in the first place.

”What do you think, Dean?” Castiel asks back and looks up from his hand which he had been staring at, and it's funny how – across a garden and two thick windows, yards of space between them – that his gaze can strike him like this, like his entire body is buzzing, neurons firing off, eyes wide awake.

”Oh, I just – just something Jo said.” Dean says, but doesn't know how to finish that statement without sounding like a completely adolescent idiot, and so he doesn't; instead, he trails off one unfinished sentence and staggers into another incomplete one; ”Does Balthazar know that we...”

”That we're friends?” Castiel finishes, which just really answers Dean's question before he'd even had time to fully form and ask it.

Dean doesn't reply. Castiel doesn't offer any answers either.

”Last night I had a nightmare,” Castiel says after Dean's listened to him breathing in and out, once, twice, thrice. ”I haven't had one since I was a kid and now I'm afraid to go back to sleep. It's stupid, moronic, but I-”

”It's not stupid,” Dean interrupts him before he can help himself. ”I have nightmares too. Most nights. I can't fall asleep and when I do I-”

”I know. You've told me.”

”No, I'm pretty sure I haven't,” Dean argues, because he's pretty sure he wouldn't have forgotten – no part of him wanted Castiel to know how fucked up he really was.

”Oh,” Castiel sighs, ”Must've been Sam, then.”

”What do you mean, Sam's told you?” Dean asks, heart racing, hands shaking. ”Cas?”

”Nevermind. I'm going to go to bed now, Dean. Good night.” He hangs up before Dean can ask him again and he doesn't look over to Dean's house as he gets up from the couch and turns off the lamp, leaving a blank blackness where the light had lit up his house and garden.

• • •

When Dean picks Sam up from school the following day he's been practicing ways to start the conversation he really, _really_ doesn't want to have but is forced to admit (to himself, anyway) that he actually needs to have, because he hasn't slept all night, and Castiel made it obvious last night that he'd get no answer from him, and Dean needs fuckin' peace, for Christ's sake.

”Sam,” Dean greets him the second he gets inside the car. ”I need to talk to you.”

”Where's Cas? I thought he was going to pick me up from now on,” Sam says and throws his backpack into the backseat.

”Yeah, I texted him to let him know he'd have today off,” and so what if Dean talks as if this is a job Castiel is doing for him? It's passive-aggressive at best, but he doesn't need Sam to get too used to him. ”I wanted to talk to you about something.”

”Oh?” The surprise is evident on Sam's face and Dean gets it; last time he willingly started a conversation about his feelings, he'd been three sheets to the wind, Sam had been _twelve_ , and it had involved teddy bears. Needless to say, this is cause for surprise. ”Is it about Cas?”

Dean's surprise matches Sam's, ”How'd you know?”

Sam huffs out a short laugh, ”I'm not a moron, Dean.”

”Yeah? 'Cause telling Cas about my,” takes a deep breath to steady himself, brow furrowing, eyes closing in anger, ”- _sleeping habits_ sounds pretty damn moronic to me, kid.”

Sam goes quiet and doesn't say anything for a while; Dean revs up the engine and starts driving. He puts on some music to keep Sam quiet, but after a few minutes Sam reaches forward and turns down the volume. ”I thought he knew, Dean. How should I know you hadn't told him?”

”Why are you and Cas even discussing my personal life in the first place?” And yeah, he might be shouting at the end of that sentence, but hey, he feels obliged at the moment. Being awake for two days straight will do that to you.

”Ugh, Dean, you're the one being a moron right now. He worries about you, rightfully, we _all_ do. It's normal for him to ask how you're doing, and it's not like -”

”Whoa, wait, he _asked_?” For some reason that particular detail made everything worse, and Dean could suddenly really use a stiff drink. Or ten.

”Yeah. He seems, I don't know, blue. He misses you. I think he wants to be your friend.”

”He said that?” They're already home and Dean's turned off the ignition, but he doesn't move from his seat; in fact he turns to face Sam. This is ten shades of wrong, what's Castiel's doing – using Sam to get to Dean? It's just low, no matter how you look at things, but Dean is still so fucking exhausted – being mad, sleep-deprived and perpetually confused will do that to you – that he doesn't even know what to say except, ”Dude, that still doesn't make any of this OK.”

”You know, Dean, this would be much easier if you would just talk to him instead of going through me like a schoolboy with a crush,” Sam sniggers but with quiet resignation instead of glee in his voice and leaves the car. Dean doesn't even get to tell him that Castiel is the one who doesn't want to talk to him, and figures none of it matters, anyway.

• • •

When Sam asks if he can spend the following night at a friend's, Dean doesn't even care enough to ask who it is but agrees right away – his overwhelming need to get absolutely shitfaced is bad enough as it is, and it should really be a testament to bad parenting when the look of incredulity on Sam's face when he doesn't get the 20 questions (”who's the friend, are their parents home, what are you gonna do,” etc.) doesn't even change Dean's resolve.

So, after work, Dean goes home to shower, eat, and heads out into the city. He doesn't know too many bars since he doesn't have time (or friends, a little voice in the back of his head reminds him), but he finds one with a radio station set to classic rock churning in the background and a bartender who doesn't ask too many questions, and for a while he contents himself with sitting alone on a barstool drinking whiskey and beer, sometimes talking to some other patrons, but mostly keeping to himself.

He's gotten to that point where he's thought so much about it that he doesn't even think about it anymore; it's just _there_ , hidden beneath the surface of consciousness and paints every thing he does in that morose light of love-induced depression. Instead of invading his mind, Castiel's occupying it, tinkering around his head to find spots he hasn't already tinkered and messed with.

Two guys next to him start talking about a dystopian novel that's just gotten some literary award, and Dean doesn't even _feel_ anything when he realises they're talking about Balthazar, because of course they are – the universe's out to get him, right? He can't get an evening of peace without being reminded of Castiel.

Around midnight a girl walks in and she looks like she's running from something, which Dean can empathize with. She sits down next to him but doesn't initiate contact; instead, she flags over the bartender, orders a beer and just stares into the mirror behind the counter partly obscured by half-empty liquor bottles, and Dean is instantly mesmerized by the tired sadness he recognizes from himself in her.

”You like Kansas?” He asks as he notices the way her foot taps along to the beat.

She instantly stops, looks down at her pint, takes a big swallow and nods, but doesn't comment. Her eyes flicker to and lingers on his hands and he doesn't know what to think of that yet.  

”I personally think ”Carry On My Wayward Son” is the best song, _ever_ ,” he tries again but she just shrugs and waves the bartender over again. ”What's your name? I'm Dean.”

”Emma,” she replies, voice deeper than he would've thought, and in the same breath orders a double whiskey, straight, which Dean matches. She, however, takes it out of the bartender's hands, downs it in three gulps and orders a beer before she's even sat the empty glass down on the counter, and Dean's so surprised to find someone who needed that drink more than he did. It actually lifts his spirits, even if it's not exactly nice of him to be relieved by the fact that he might not be the most fucked up individual in this room right now.

”Do you come here often?” Dean asks and barely gets the sentence out of his mouth before she snorts and he laughs at it, too. She looks at him and he sees that her eyes are green and their laughter quiets down into slow, understanding smiles before he admits, ”Okay, bad line. Let me try again. What's that you're drinking?”

He continues to do this for a while, repeating bad pick-up lines until she laughs and tears stream down her cheeks, and he feels funny and not so useless when he's managed to clear her – if not also his own – broody mood from her thoughts. A song comes on that Dean recognizes and he finds his hands drumming along on the edge of the counter to the beat before he remembers that it's an old Black Sabbath song from his dad's favourite album, but before the thought can manifest and grow roots he looks over to find Emma staring back at him and it hits him then that he wants to take her home.

”Emma! There you are!” Dean looks over her shoulder to see a girl with big curly hair in a silver dress approaching them. ”Who's your friend? Hi, I'm Joan.”

He shakes her hand and introduces himself, and they fall into small talk while Emma orders another double shot of whiskey, which she downs quicker than the first one.

”Rachel and Janet and I were looking for you. You just disappeared on us,” Joan says, but she doesn't seem to be complaining; it rather seems like she's trying to explain to Emma that her friends honestly care about her, and Dean doesn't know if he's projecting too much of himself onto her, if he's succeeded in finding someone with as low a sense of self-worth as himself, or if he's just that drunk.

The two girls talk back and forth for a while, and Dean catches her eye as the girls debate whether or not she should go back to their group of friends, but that only seems to settle her decision as she puts her leather jacket back on and empties her bottle of beer.

”See you later, then,” Dean says with a wink, because he's fairly sure he's never going to see her again, but he's a flirt by nature, and he feels good for the first time in a long while.

Emma actually does follow Joan out of the door and Dean's not surprised, but still a little disappointed. He orders another whiskey and promises himself to go home once he finishes it; the fact that he drinks it achingly slowly isn't proof that he's waiting for Emma to change her mind and come back.

He finishes his drink and goes to the bathroom; when he gets back Emma is waiting in his chair drinking a draught Guinness and Bad Moon Rising is playing on the radio, which is awesome. He hums under his breath and signals the bartender as he approaches and sits down into the seat she had previously been occupying. ”You came back.”

She doesn't look over at him; instead she laughs a little, self-consciously, and takes a sip of her beer. ”Not for you.”

”So. Emma. What happened?”

”Kesha happened. Menthol cigarettes happened. Expensive cocktails with fucking umbrellas happened.”

Dean laughs a bit, realises that's the most she's said to him so far, and takes his beer in hand as he turns to face her head-on. ”I mean, what went wrong?”

She does the same thing and their knees bump into one another, denim on denim; there's a hole on his left knee and her jeans are soft and cold against his naked skin. ”I left... this bar. This place is great,” she replies, and he knows it's not the truth, but accepts it for what it is, and he doesn't drink any more but just watches her drink her beer.

”I can't sleep,” she softly says after a while, staring into his eyes, and he gets the feeling that it's not just the alcohol that's making her brave enough to admit this to him. ”Unless I get drunk, I mean. I'm not – I'm not an alcoholic, but I just can't sleep.”

He gently takes the beer from her hand and places it on the counter; replaces the cold glass with his warm hand in hers after he's put his jacket on and leads her out into the darkness to walk around for a while. The air between them is calm and he doesn't feel completely alone, the way he does with Castiel or Jo or even Sam, because, shit, depression is alienating, and with Emma it feels like her empathy is interlaced with her own experience. Maybe her bravery reflects on him, because he finds himself asking, ”Why can't you sleep?”, and it feels like he's really asking himself that question.

She says she doesn't know why and he doesn't press the matter, but he stops walking, cups her cold cheeks and leans down to kiss her. Her lips are soft and they open to a gentle press of tongue, and she smiles and pulls away, leans her forehead against his chin. ”I think you need to take me home, Dean.”

”Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he says with a lazy smile and leans down to kiss her again. ”My car's just around the corner.”

”Are you okay to drive?” She asks, grabs his upper arm to steady herself as they turn around. ”Because I'm really not.”

”Maybe my tolerance's a bit better than yours,” he grins and opens the passenger door for her. ”You need practice.”

”Maybe I drank twice as much as you, and maybe you shouldn't tell me my game's off before you've even run the field. You might not be allowed to play,” she retorts back with a head-tilt and squinted eyes, and fuck it if he doesn't see Castiel in that expression, but he shakes it off, forces himself to laugh and shake his head at her as he closes the door after her.

He stops just before he gets to his own door, because it hits him that he hadn't thought about Castiel for hours at this point, and then he laughs to himself because a week ago he didn't think he'd ever _want_ to get over him.

• • •

He has her pressed up against the door before he's even properly closed and locked it. Her mouth is open and wet and warm, and he kisses her in a furious fervour until she's moaning and pushing herself up against him. He slides his hands down her sides and lifts her legs to straddle his hips, slowly but surely grinding against her in a careful rhythm. Her hands grip his shoulders and she pulls away from the kiss and leans her forehead against that place where the muscles of his neck slip into the opening of his t-shirt and she sighs, long and hard, ”Dean, bedroom. _Please._ ”

He laughs a little and puts her down, takes her hand and leads her back to his room and for a second he feels like he should get down on his knees and thank God that Sam's not home. She stops once they get inside his bedroom and bends down to untie her boots, and he can't help but mutter, ”Jesus, you're pretty flexible,” because, fuck, she's bent over with her legs stretched and it looks like it doesn't even bother her.

She lifts her head to glare at him, and he gulps at the way her gaze pierces through him (but also a little at the cleavage she's letting him see), and says, ”If you're already impressed I don't think you'll be able to handle me.”

Dean can recognize a challenge when it's presented to him, and so he puts on his best smirk and yanks her past him and onto the bed where he slowly crawls up over her to catch her lips in a soft kiss trailing down. He pushes her leather jacket off her shoulders and goes to work on her jeans instead, fingering her underwear off in the same go. He pauses when he reaches her feet because she's wearing ladybug socks and it's the most adorable thing he's ever seen, and he misses that feeling when you get to know new people and they let you in on these small things.

”Don't tell me you've got a thing for feet,” she groans and he looks up to find her staring at him, naked from the waist down, a smile on her lips.

”Cute socks,” he says instead, because when did he suddenly get so deep about girls' socks? He takes them off as well and kisses the arches and insteps of her feet, slowly moving upwards, kissing the inside of her knees, the junction where her thighs go into her pelvis, and then finally her center, causing her to dig her feet into the mattress and arch her back. He licks between her folds and sucks gently on her clit and she's moaning his name, and he reaches up with his hand, burrowing it under her t-shirt to palm at her bra-covered breast.

”Jesus _fuck_ , Dean,” she groans as his tongue dips into her. ”Did they teach you that in Sunday school?”

He looks up and grins at her, wide like a chesire, her juices on his lips, with dark eyes she tells him to fuck her before he can answer her. He crawls up over her, kissing his way as he pulls her shirt off her sweat-slicked body and reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. Enveloping one nipple inbetween his lips, he has her moaning in moments, writhing naked underneath him.

He sits up inbetween her spread legs and quickly flings off his own shirt, starts working on his belt. ”Condoms in the dresser, sweetheart,” he adds a smirk to the end of that sentence and as she rolls onto her stomach to reach over for them, he runs a hand over the curve of her ass. She presses herself up against him, stops in her search for protection, and he laughs a little and wiggles out of his pants and socks.

She finally does find one, though, and he tears off the wrapper and coats himself with it as she lies back and spreads her legs around his waist. He enters her swiftly with a groan and her small hands wrap around his arms as he leans over her and thrusts up into her, quickly finding her spot.

”Don't- ugh, don't do that,” she mutters and closes her eyes. ”We're not in a hurry.”

He stops moving inside of her and just stares at her until enough time has passed and she opens her eyes to look back into his. He smiles, softly, and she does the same, and when he leans down to kiss her it's with all the time in the world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might recognize Emma from a short story I did a few years ago called "City of Wonder, City Lights" which I put up on my tumblr. The Dean in that story didn't have any of the emotional toil and trouble my Dean Winchester does, so I never felt comfortable calling "City of Wonder..." a Supernatural fanfiction and didn't think of it as one, either, until I decided to use Emma in this fic.
> 
> Also, I made a [mix](http://8tracks.com/astridstrid/beyond-our-waking-eyes) for this fic.


	11. Hung-over

Dean Winchester is hung-over. There’s simply no other way to put it. Sure, it’s not the worst one he’s ever had, but he’s struggling to remember how to properly wake up when there’s a knock at his door at way-too-fucking-early-o’clock the following morning. He groans, not fully realising that it's not whoever’s knocking's fault that they aren't very considerate to the massive pounding inside Dean’s skull right now, and  _ jesus fucking christ, just stop the damned knocking already _ . 

He must’ve said that last thing out loud, because Emma crawls over him, puts on a t-shirt and some boxers she picks up from the floor, throws his jeans at him and tells him in a gruff hungover tone that this is not the best way to begin a morning after when she leaves his bedroom to open the door.

She comes back into his bedroom just a minute later and tells him there’s someone at the door to pick up someone named Sam, and Dean audibly sighs at that because he’d fucking forgotten Castiel and his stupid ass carpooling arrangement. A quick glance to his alarm clock tells him it’s almost eight, blank red letters staring at him, and he puts on his jeans while Emma crawls back into bed and picks up a Henley out of the hamper on his way into the hallway where Castiel is waiting, car keys in hand and an unreadable, stoic expression on his face.

“ Cas.” 

He doesn’t greet him back, just stares at him coldly as Dean puts on his shirt. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean closes the door to his bedroom when Castiel’s eyes sway to look behind him and to the tangled mess of his bed. “Staying at a friend’s.”

“ You didn’t tell me.” If anything, Castiel sounds more hurt than angry, but Dean’s too tired to think about it except for it to register at the back of his consciousness for later scrutiny. 

“ I didn’t think I’d have to. Seems like there’s a lot of things you and Sam talk about behind my back,” and, okay, it seems like his brain-to-mouth filter is vacating this morning along with every other higher brain function, but instead of apologizing, Dean walks into the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker. 

If they’re gonna do this now, he’s gonna need coffee, but it turns out they aren’t, because Castiel leaves with a short, “I’m going to be late for my seminar,” and the loud slap of the door following him short thereafter.

Dean stays in the kitchen, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, breathing slowly through his nose, and there are soft padding footsteps accompanying the sound of the coffee maker. Emma rests her hand on his shoulder, her smile soft and tired, and, like with everything else, it seems like she understands, or maybe she doesn’t but knows that she doesn’t have to, and Dean wonders why it’s so easy with her when it's so difficult with Castiel.

They drink their first cups in silence, feet cold on the linoleum, and they crawl back into bed after that. Dean drifts in and out of sleep, and the third time he does this Emma’s reading the book Castiel gave him for Christmas, and his first instinct is to take it from her, something so personal in the hands of someone who should practically be a stranger to him, except that she isn't, not really.

“ I didn’t peg you for the type,” she says after he’s been lying on his side, staring at her for minutes, too hung-over to actually do anything to stop her reading his personal life. 

"Why aren't you sleeping?" He asks instead, figures he doesn't need to answer the questions she didn't ask.

"I don’t sleep much," she answers, green eyes staring into his, and Dean remembers new parts of the conversation they had last night, and it's so honest he doesn't know what to say because he'd been right last night, then, when he'd thought it was kinmanship and not just the solitude of drinking whiskey on a cold Thursday evening that had united them.

Instead, he goes with, "I have to call work. Shit," because even if she's all right with this fucking thing between them, he sure as hell isn't, and so he fumbles for his cell phone in the pocket of his jeans lying on the floor.

He stays in bed while he phones Bobby, who doesn't so much yell at Dean as sigh at him with quiet indignation. When he's done, Emma's closed the book and put it back on the night stand, and she leans back against the headboard, a long groan followed by a sleepy sigh."God, I'm hung-over. Do you need to get to work?"

"It would probably be best," he sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

• • •

Bobby’s reading what looks like a twenty-plus year-old Toyota instruction manual when Dean staggers into his office around noon. He’s glaring at him over the top rim of his glasses and Dean sits down in the chair in front of him, leans back with his arms crossed and expects at least a firm scolding for skipping out work.

Instead, there’s sympathy in Bobby’s voice when he puts down the manual and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Dean knows for a goddamned fact that even though Bobby is asking about the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t want to hear it right now. “I’m sorry,” he says instead; he is, truly, hates that he’s a disappointment to him and that he’s incapable of bearing the smallest amount of responsibility.

"Of course you are,” Bobby grunts and stands up, walks over to the front of the desk and leans against it, looking down at Dean. “You need to pull yourself together, son.”

“ Is that right?” Dean grunts, getting out of his chair, because he’s in no mood to sit through another lecture; spending the night with Emma was something he hadn’t known he’d needed - not just getting laid, but not being alone - and he was in no mood to feel bad about that, not by Bobby or Castiel or anyone. “I’m gonna get to working.” 

Bobby just gruffs out something incoherent in response and Dean leaves him in his office. He talks to Steve, one of the other guys working there, and he ends up sorting spares for scrap the rest of the afternoon. His hangover eases by the time he has lunch at two, and sweat smelling of alcohol is sticking to his skin as the sun pours into the shop through the dirty windows to light up his freckles like stars.

Bobby comes to find him around four with Dean’s phone in hand, “Sam for you.”

Dean balances the cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he wrenches loose a muffler. “Sam? What’s up?”

“ Dean, where are you?” 

“ Work,” he grunts and throws the iron to the side. “Hold on, hold on, where are you?”

“ I’m still at the school,” Sam says, irritation obvious in his voice. 

“ Cas didn’t come to pick you up?” Dean holds onto the phone with his hand as he wipes his forehead off on his sleeve and goes into the office to pick up his jacket. He thinks it must be the fatigue that makes him unable to be really mad or disappointed in Castiel; rather he’s ignored dealing with any outfall of their conversation earlier today and deluded himself into thinking that he would be able to deal with things as they progressed. 

“ Apparently not,” Sam bites back, and a part of Dean revels in the fact that, for once, Dean wasn’t the one who screwed up (even though he got drunk and slept with a stranger on a school night,  _ shit _ ). “Are you coming?” 

“ Yes,” Dean says assuredly, waves goodbye at Bobby who just nods at him. “I’ll be there in ten.” 

As he drives through the city he has to fight himself not to drive way past the speed limit or angrily dial Castiel’s phone, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to convey the many shades of angry he feels at the moment without doing or saying something he's probably (definitely) going to regret later on. When he finally pulls up at Sam’s high school, he’s not just hungover, tired and seething with anger, he also feels incredibly fucked over.

Sam’s expression matches his own, and they don’t speak for a while as they drive back home, not until Sam looks over at him with scrunched eyes and crossed arms and asks, “Is it all right if I’m kinda angry at Cas right now? Not just for not picking me up, I mean.”

Dean barks out a bitter laugh at that, turns the car around the corner and rolls up to their house. “Join the frickin’ club, kid. Now go in and do your homework while I get dinner.”

He ends up staring at the produce section in the grocery store for so long he’s forgotten what he was even there to buy, and ends up going home with a two-litre of Coke, a bag of pretzels and gummy worms for Sam.

When he gets back home, Sam’s lying on the couch watching TV, and Dean just plops down next to him with the snacks, and they share the soda straight from the bottle and argue over who gets first dips into the pretzel bag.

”Are you hungover?” Sam asks when Dean's downed half the coke in one go and laughs a little when Dean cocks his eye, burps and nods. ”I didn't know you went out last night.” 

”Spur of the moment thing, really,” Dean admits, because it had been (even though he'd needed it for weeks, months even) and put on a smirk, ”Lucky you weren't home.” 

”Oh, really?” Sam laughs. ”How lucky?” 

”She was still here when Cas came to pick you up,” he says, and he hadn't wanted this conversation to take that turn, but it had, and shit, the look on his brother's face is not what he'd hoped when he'd started this conversation. 

“ Dean, I…” Sam starts, but doesn’t seem like he’s going to finish by the constipated look on his face. Dean tells him as much, which only hardens Sam’s glare and increases Dean’s snickering, and Sam throws a handfull of pretzels into his face as punishment. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Cas, and I don’t know if I need to know, but I just want to know if you want me to stop talking to him, or if there’s anything I can do…” He trails off, and Dean loves him so much he can’t think for a second except just let a smile faintly take control of his face for a moment or two. 

“ He’s being a dick about something that’s not his business,” Dean counters and takes a large swig of Coke. “Sam, I’m not going to pretend I’m loving the fact that you and he became best buds in the course of a nanosecond since it's biting me in the ass right now, but-” and Dean’s not going to admit this, because Sam’s still a teenager who doesn’t know better, so it’s best if he doesn’t know that Dean knows Sam needs a stronger role model than Dean, especially an academic one since it doesn't seem like the trouble at school is going away, and so Dean finishes “-but, despite his douchyness to me, he’s a good dude.” 

Sam sighs and gives a reaffirming nod, but seems to shake himself out of it and shakes his head, “I’m not so sure, Dean. He treats you like shit.”

Dean doesn’t want to tell Sam that it’s his own fault, that he doesn’t deserve bettter, that despite all the shit Castiel does he’s still way too good for Dean, and so he just grunts, gets off the couch and asks Sam, “Chinese or pizza?”

• • •

He texts Castiel late that night, after Sam’s passed out twice (first on the couch watching the Three Stooges with Dean, then alone in his bed), and there's complete radio silence from the other side of the trenches until Dean can hear three quick raps on the front door. When he goes to open it, Castiel is on the other side and there’s snow in his hair.

They go into the kitchen to talk like they always do, and Dean offers Castiel something to drink, which he declines. He doesn’t even take off his trenchcoat, and Dean figures he might as well cut to the chase, then. He’s exhausted and still a bit hung-over and doesn’t even know why he cares anymore, but he really, _really_ does, and in a vain attempt to hide that he musters to put some humour into his voice when he says, “You kinda ran out on me earlier, man.”

“ I didn’t think you’d want to talk with your  _ friend  _ still there,” Castiel retorts, and he doesn’t look bashful or uncomfortable or anything suggesting that he knows he’s out of line making that kind of remark, and the cold stare Dean sees in his eyes has his blood turning to ice in his stomach.

“ You’re kidding me, right?” Dean asks, and when Castiel doesn’t change his expression any other than to move his gaze from Dean’s face to just left of it, muscle ticking in his jaw, he almost laughs. “Jesus, Cas, you’re not. Do you think you have any right to say any fucking thing to me right now? Really?”

Castiel tilts his head, eyes squinting, and he takes a step closer to Dean. “Do you really think this kind of behavior is what Sam needs?”

Dean matches Castiel’s approach with two steps, “Don’t you dare make this about Sam, we were doing fine before you came along.”

"Sam doesnt seem to think so," Castiel huffs, and who the fuck was he to use Sam against him? The blow was so low and unexpected Dean pushes him until Castiel is backed up against the wall and he braces himself as he spits out, "Get the fuck away from me. Why can't you leave me alone? Stop acting like my boyfriend, like you have any right to be jealous."

They're so crowded up in each other's space that Dean doesn't see it coming when Castiel leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s, but the anger and pain quickly bleeds into frenzied lust as Dean grips his biceps and pushes him further into the wall, shelves rattling, kisses turning into bites that brings blood from Castiel’s lips. Dean’s got a thigh between his legs before he knows it and Castiel is moaning, nails printing crescents into the back of Dean’s neck, and he wants to hit him and he wants to kiss him some more.

Castiel pulls apart for air, and while Dean rests his forehead against his sweaty neck he realises what they’re doing and he takes a step back without letting go of him. Neither one of them speak but when Castiel looks up there’s guilt in his eyes and it breaks Dean’s heart.

“ I’m gonna go,” he says and turns to leave, and Dean doesn’t know if he actually would have if it hadn’t been for Sam’s bedroom door opening then and hearing him call out. 

“ Dean? You still up?” He sounds sleepy, so they must’ve woken him, and Castiel doesn’t look at Dean before he leaves the kitchen. The sound of the door slamming shut after him clarifies what Castiel was feeling well enough, and Dean spends the next five minutes leaning over the kitchen table, quietly muttering obscenities to himself and wondering if anything will ever work out for him. 

 


	12. 25 years old

Dean Winchester is 25 years old today, which Sam reminds him of at exactly 7 AM on the morning of January 24th. Dean's barely slept at all the past few days and so he's not really in the mood for birthday songs but Sam's got a stupid smile on his face and so Dean lets him sing until he gets embarrassed enough to shut up.

Dean is still drinking his first cup of coffee when the doorbell rings and Sam goes to answer it. Castiel's voice is carried through the house and his heart speeds up because he hasn't seen him since last week when their argument had turned into fevered frenching in his kitchen.

He goes into the hallway and almost bumps into Castiel, whose eyes are ocean blue and whose cheeks are flushed, obviously remembering the night as well as he does. ”Dean.”

Dean's hand instantly goes up to rub at the back of his neck as he looks down, ”Cas.”

Sam's fucking laughing, the idiot, and Dean gives him a shove toward his shoes. ”Don't be late, jackass.”

”I need to get my backpack,” Sam says, shaking his head, grin still on his lips, and nce he's in his room, Castiel steps closer and locks his eyes on Dean. ”Do you have plans tonight? I was hoping we could...talk.”

”Hey, Cas, did you know it's Dean's birthday today?” Sam asks as he re-emerges from his room.

Dean swears he could kill his baby brother, he really could, and throws him a dirty look.

”No, I didn't. Happy birthday,” Castiel smiles, a bit confused, but it's just too wide to be considered polite. Dean stares at Sam, who at least realises that wasn't the smartest move and puts on his boots.

”So... tonight's not good?” Castiel asks again, and if anyone else had asked, Dean might've been embarrassed to admit he was going to spend his 25th birthday alone with his brother, but with Castiel there's never been much need to explain.

”No, no, it is. I'm just not a birthday kinda boy.” He tries to joke, but it sounds flat even to his own ears. ”I'll come over after work. I'm off at 9.30,” he says and he can see Sam's brows knitting together from across the room.

”I'll drop Sam off after school,” Castiel says on his way out of the door, and the smile they share just before the door closes stays with Dean until he gets to work.

• • •

Bobby knows Dean isn't one for birthdays, never has been, and so settles himself with a pat on Dean's back, a gruff ”Happy birthday, kid” and a small newspaper-wrapped gift pushed into Dean's hands.

It's a handcarved leather belt like the one Bobby wears and Dean doesn't even want to guess how many hours of work he'd put into it. It's dark, almost black, and the carvings only shine through in the right lighting.

He doesn't see Bobby again until he's leaving for his shift at the Roadhouse around 4 o'clock; he's standing across the salvage yard from him and they share a glance and nod at each other, which is all the reaffirming any of them need, and Dean's on his way.

• • •

Jo, the little brat, didn't believe Dean when he told her last week he doesn't like birthdays, never has believed him when he's said it year after year and she probably never will, so Dean shouldn't be surprised when he shows up to work and a bunch of people (few of whom he actually knows) yell 'Surprise!' the minute he gets inside the door, but he is surprised and grins at his friends standing awkwardly around holding beers and gifts and, fuck, is that a _banner_ hanging over the bar?

It says 'Congratulations on being halfway to 50', and Dean can't get the beer someone pushed into his hands quickly enough down his throat. When he resurfaces, he can see Sam smiling from the far end of the bar, and the dark-haired girl standing next to him certainly isn't Jessica.

”Happy birthday, Dean,” she says when he approaches them, and he can't really bring himself to smile properly at her, but he thanks her all the same.

”Dean, this is Ruby,” Sam explains and smiles at her. ”She gave me a ride home from that party at New Year's, remember?”

”I guess that means I should thank you,” Dean says, and he doesn't realise that bitterness isn't the best course of action when meeting new people until after her expression changes.

”Yeah, you could, but it's not like I was keeping him from doing anything stupid anyway,” she says, and there's almost laughter under the cool tone of her voice. She holds Dean's stare until Sam coughs and Dean looks away.

”Cas' looking for you,” he says and gestures behind Dean, who turns and sees the trench coat-clad character standing at the other end of the Roadhouse, by the pool tables, looking a little lost and more than a little disheartened.

It takes Dean almost fifteen minutes to cross the room; practically everyone is there and wants to talk to him, and really, he shouldn't be angry at them over this because he knows that they all do this for his sake, really, he knows that, but he doesn't really _feel_ it – he's always hated his birthdays, always, and everyone knows that, so why are they here for him now and not two years ago when he couldn't even pay his bills, or last week when he couldn't take Sam to lacrosse practice, and what about tomorrow, what will he do then?

Jo throws him a look when she sees him aiming for Castiel, and he's tired of listening to everyone reasoning on his behalf on why he shouldn't spend time with the only one who makes sense anymore, so when he finally gets to Castiel, it doesn't take more than a tug at his coat sleeve and a quick throw of his head towards the door for him to get moving.

They're in the Impala on their way back home before Dean realises he just left Sam and his friends without telling them he was leaving and only when he's parked the car in front of Castiel's house that he realises he doesn't really care.

”Sam told me about the party this morning,” Castiel admits on their way up to his house. ”I spent all day wondering if I should come or not.”

”I'm happy you did, Cas,” Dean replies. ”Although I wasn't kidding earlier when I said I'm not that into birthdays.”

”I noticed,” he laughs a little and unlocks the door. ”I'm happy you didn't cancel tonight because of it.”

”What did you want to talk about?” Dean asks, because it's been on his mind all day despite being unsure if he'd even heard right. ”This morning, I mean, you said you wanted to talk.”

Castiel shrugs, but Dean sees it for what it is; there's a difference between wanting to talk and wanting to _talk_ , and the fact that Castiel just wanted to see Dean – just because he wanted to be around him – doesn't quite break his heart. It's close, though, and so when Dean grabs his shoulder and forces him to look at him, it doesn't take Castiel more than a second to move his eyes down to Dean's lips and another second for his own to follow.

When they kiss, there are no fireworks and grand expressions of love hidden between the moans and licks. There's confusion, and pain, and despair, and Dean's in it so far that his groans almost turn to sobs when Castiel has his face between his hands and kisses him like it's the end of the world. For Dean, at least, it might as well be.

Castiel pulls away, and Dean follows his mouth until there's cold air on his lips instead; he opens his eyes and all he sees is blue.

”Dean, when was the last time you slept?”

He can't remember, and his eyes are swimming in deep blue and he can't catch his breath and there's no will or strength in his feet to drive him back from Castiel, who just sighs at this whole thing and shakes his head.

”I can't do this,” Dean realises as soon as he says it and looks down. ”I can't. I can't keep waiting for you, man. Don't do this to me.” His voice is broken and he shakes his head, pushes Castiel's hands away from him and takes one step back, then another.

”Dean,” Castiel sighs and shakes his head. ”I'm sorry about the other day. I was... out of line,” he says, and this must've been what he'd actually wanted to talk about, and to hell with it, Dean had actually thought tonight wouldn't be about _Castiel_. ”That woman who was there, I don't know, I... panicked.”

”Why do you have to make that about you, huh?” Dean asks, desperation turning into anger in his voice, and he barks out a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all. ”That wasn't about you, Cas. You been screwing around with Balthazar all this time, then you find me with someone and you decide I'm suddenly interesting after all?”

”Dean, that's-”

”Fuck you, Cas. Go to hell,” and he turns around and slams the door after him, walks back to his house and drinks the last half of the whiskey bottle stashed under his bed before he passes out, wet cheeks against the cold pillow.

• • •

”Dean, I don't think you need to come,” Sam says in a voice Dean would, on a good day, characterize as _begging_.

This is not a good day.

”Sam, if you're telling me the voicemail I got last night was a dream and that Crowley hasn't sent me an additional _four_ letters regarding you skipping class, _four_ letters, _four_ letters I certainly did _not_ receive thanks to you, well, then, I'm sorry for not believing you,” he snaps and crosses the school yard in long, angry strides.

”I didn't want to bother you.”

”That's rich,” Dean snorts and enters the school and goes straight to the secretary's desk. ”Where's Crowley's office?”

She directs him to the hall on the left, and he storms off with Sam trailing behind him. He finds Crowley's door, knocks twice and enters when he hears a sharp voice yell, ”Come in.”

The man sitting at the desk doesn't look like he's very pleased to be here, which Dean can't tell will work to their advantage or not. Hopefully, he'll think this is a big waste of time and just want this over with as quickly as possible, and Sam'll continue to attend classes without any more trouble. ”Crowley. I'm Dean Winchester-”

”Young Winchester's big brother, yes, I'm aware,” he replies in an accented, cool voice and beckons for them to sit down. ”I'm surprised it took you this long to come.”

Dean looks to Sam, who looks like he want to crawl up inside himself. ”Me, too. You said Sam would be expelled?”

”Yes, but as it is, it turns out our principal has a bit of a soft spot for Sam, so I'm afraid I can't keep my promise,” he replies, and he looks so pained at the notion of keeping Sam in school that it should be funny. Really, it should, because Sam's a smart kid, always has been, but more than that, he's always been a _good_ kid, too. Crowley not seeing that indicates a change in behaviour Dean doesn't want to acknowledge.

Dean looks back and forth between Sam and Crowley, neither one of whom elaborates, and Dean's not sure if he can trust that Sam's out of the woods just yet. ”Can I talk to him?”

”Her,” Crowley says and nods over his head and Dean sees a dark-haired woman through the tinted glass of the office door who opens it and steps inside. ”Hello, Sam.”

”Jody, I mean, Principal Mills.”

Dean stands up and shakes her hand, ”I'm his brother. Dean.”

”Can I talk to you a minute? We can go to my office. Sam, I believe there are classes to attend.”

”Yes, ma'am,” he says and scuttles out of the room so fast Dean doesn't even get a chance to tell him he'll pick him up later. Nevertheless, Dean follows Principal Mills into her office further down the hall.

”Your brother's very special, Dean, and I'm trying my best to keep him motivated. I'm sorry he's having trouble at home,” she says when she's closed the door after him and motions for him to sit at the chair at her desk.

There's sunlight streaming in through the curtains behind her desk and Dean wants to be calmed by the sun and her presence, but he feels blame heavily on his shoulders. ”You're not the only one who's sorry, though I was under the impression that Sam's troubles are here in school, not with me.”

”I understand you've been very busy lately,” she says and sits down on her side of the desk. ”Working two jobs must be very hard, Dean. No one blames you for not being there.”

Crossing his arms, Dean leans back in his chair, too tired to really get angry. ”Sam say that?”

”Not in so many words.” She shakes her head and pushes a binder out of the way on her desk, rests her hands there. ”I met your friend the other day. The man who drives Sam to school.”

”Cas?”

”He's been helping out at home?”

Dean snorts at that. ”I guess you could call it that,” from Cas' perspective, anyway. From Sam's, as well? Dean doubts it, but then again, he's beginning to learn not to trust the kid. ”He's our neighbor, works at the university. Sam likes him well enough.”

She just hums at that, and Dean has a sneaking feeling he's being held in the dark, but when she excuses herself two minutes of small-talk later and tells him to let her know if there are any more problems (and vice versa, Dean coincides), Dean finds himself back in the Impala on his way to work.

• • •

Sam's been in his bedroom ”doing homework” since he got off school at four, neglected to come down for dinner when Dean had called at seven, and now it's almost eleven PM and there's still a light under his door.

It's not like Dean had expected Sam to be, you know, actually studying, so it's a surprise when he goes into his bedroom and finds him huddle over a chemistry textbook, pencil in hand, eyes almost falling shut.

”Dude, you look smashed,” he starts and sits down on Sam's bed across from him. ”I thought the whole 'homework' thing was just an excuse to stay and sulk.”

Sam glares at him at that, but he looks too tired for there to be any malice in his eyes. ”I've got to get this, there's a test on Monday.”

”It's Friday, Sam. You can study tomorrow. You should get some sleep,” Dean says and realizes the irony in his voice when Sam snorts. ”So, I guess you're not seeing Jess anymore?”

Sam closes his book and shrugs, but the movement looks awkward, like he's been sitting still so long his joints are stuck. ”No, I'm seeing Ruby now.”

”I noticed. Why?”

Dean figures Sam's never really asked himself that question, because at first he opens his mouth as if to answer, but then something changes in his eyes. He closes his mouth, then shakes his head, and Dean can hardly hear him when he says, ”Nevermind. It's not like you're going to understand, anyway.”

”I'm asking you, Sam!” Dean yells, because who is Sam to say Dean's not invested in him?

”What was I supposed to do?”

Dean's not sure he understands what he means, so he says that, exactly that, ”What do you mean?” and suddenly Sam's crying.

”You're never around! Shit, Dean, I know you are here, physically, but it's like you're walking around in a haze of self-loathing and Jack Daniels – don't fucking think I hadn't noticed – and what was I supposed to do? Ruby's not 'a good person', but shit, Dean, it's so nice to not feel like you're the only fucked up teenager around here.”

Sam's words hit Dean like a punch to the gut and Sam fights it at first, but in the end Dean's got him wrapped up in a hug that feels more like denial than consolation.

 

 


End file.
